Locked Inside The Facade
by Esther-Channah
Summary: COMPLETE! A sudden shock in Batman's life leads to his apprehension at the hands of GCPD. Warning: Major character deaths in first chapter.
1. No More

**Locked Inside the Façade**

_There's a face that we wear_

_In the cold light of day_

_It's society's mask_

_It's society's way_

_And the truth is_

_That it's all a façade!_

_There's a face that we hide_

_Till the nighttime appears_

_And what's hiding inside_

_Behind all of our fears_

_Is our true self_

_Locked inside the Façade_

_---Frank Wildhorn and Leslie Bricusse, "Jekyll & Hyde"

* * *

_

Disclaimer: All characters property of DC comics. If they were mine, we wouldn't have a Scarebeast, but I digress…

Note: This fic inspired by a certain rumour posted at Lying in the Gutters. Personally, I am not in favor of this idea. But Maxwell Lord has been reincarnated as a plot bunny. And he's been working on me for days. His influence is just too powerful to be fought…

**Chapter 1: No More**

_No more riddles_

_No more jests_

_No more curses you can't undo_

_Left by fathers you never knew_

_No more tests_

_No more feelings_

_Time to shut the door_

_Just… no more_

_--Stephen Sondheim, "Into the Woods"

* * *

_

Batman elbowed another assailant in the throat as he kicked backward to disable a third. That left two more, assuming no reinforcements on their way. One of those two, dashed up from behind, a wooden chair upraised. Batman spun, and leapt into the air, smashing the chair with one foot, while connecting with the hireling's jaw with the other. He landed, rolling, rose to his feet, and let fly a hail of batarangs at the final attacker. Crying out in pain, the man escaped down the hallway.

Batman immediately directed his attention to the man in the corner, tied to a chair. "Alfred," he said, his voice betraying only a slight tremor as he took stock of the numerous bruises and lacerations visible on the older man's face and forearms, "It's me." The old man stirred feebly. He appeared barely to be breathing. Comatose? "Hold on," Batman continued, gently. "I'll have you out in a minute. Just relax, Old Friend. You're safe, now."

He frowned. When he got his hands on Black Mask, there was going to be hell to pay for this. Alfred had been missing for fifty-one hours. In the course of those fifty-one hours, Bruce Wayne had neither eaten nor slept, diverting all his efforts toward finding the man who was his father in all ways save blood. More his father than Thomas Wayne, at this point, he knew, though rarely admitted. Father, teacher, friend… since his parents' deaths, Alfred Pennyworth had been all of these and more. Truthfully, calling him a butler or a valet was an insult, although Alfred would never see it as such.

He sniffed the air. Smoke… and chemicals… fire! Several floors below, but this condemned structure of aged timbers and crumbling cement was about to go up like a tinder box… or a powder keg, depending on what that chemical smell was. No time to analyse it now, he realized as he heard feet running toward him. He quickly cut Alfred loose. "The stairs aren't safe," he whispered. "Sorry, Old Friend, but we're going to have to take a faster way out.

So saying, he gathered the elderly man into his arms and stepped out onto the fire escape. The safety railing was more rust than iron, he noted, as were the metal slats below. Batman shifted Alfred to one arm, in order to detach his decel cable from his utility belt.

Someone hurtled into him from behind. "It's gonna blow!" a familiar voice said, as Batman fell forward, into the 'safety rail' which immediately gave way. To Batman's horror, the force of the impact knocked Alfred out of his grasp. He cast the grapnel blindly, hoping it would find purchase, while he reached desperately for the older man. He caught the back of Alfred's shirt, as the grapnel caught a third-story brick windowsill. _Safe_, he thought with relief, as he heard a crackling sound from behind. An instant later, came a deafening explosion. In the alleyway, it began to rain fire. Something heavy slammed into the hand clutching his decel line. The sudden shock caused him to release his grip. _Dumpster below me_, he registered, dimly, trying to manoeuvre for it. But there wasn't enough time, and he couldn't let go of Alfred… there was a moment of blinding pain, as his tibia slammed into the rim of the dumpster. For the second time, Alfred was torn from his grasp, as he fell the last few feet to the concrete below.

He landed heavily on his back, instinctively tucking in his chin as he hit. Disoriented, he looked around him. On the ground, inches away, a slightly built figure in denims and a bomber jacket lay on its stomach bleeding heavily. A splintered wooden shaft projected at an angle from his side. The red hood--helmet, really--had cracked on impact. "J-Jason?" He asked.

"Yeah…" the figure said weakly. "Found out… what Black Mask had… planned… for… 'lfred…"

"Don't speak," Batman said urgently. "Save your strength."

"Heh." Jason coughed. "No point. Sorry… was too… slow. Least… you're both out…" He coughed again. "Took…" his voice was little more than a wheeze, now… "th' brunt of the… blast. This is…" he gasped, then struggled to continue. "G-getting to… damn! Be… a… h-h-habit…" and the wheeze faded into a rattle.

"Jason!" With shaking hands, Batman pulled off the helmet. Jason's face was extraordinarily pale. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. Under Batman's horrified gaze, the pupils began to dilate. "No." _I've lost him_, he thought miserably. _Again_. Then realization hit. Alfred! He forced himself to a sitting position, doing his best to ignore the blinding pain in his right leg. Once he was upright, he understood better the reason for that agony: the tip of the bone was protruding from the Kevlar. He grimaced. Compound fracture. Getting away from here had just become a lot more complicated. He cast about frantically looking for Alfred.

He found him. He found him, face up, not more than six inches away from him, half buried under splintered wood and crumbled cement. He found him with one large piece of cement crushing his temple, and a pool of blood around his head. What he couldn't find--despite frenzied efforts--was a pulse. What he couldn't find--search though he did--was any sign of breath or movement. _I've lost him_, he realized in horror. _He's… gone. They're gone. Alfred… and Jason… both… gone…_ _Alfred and Jason… both lying in their own blood… in an alley… in the middle of the night…_

The agony in his heart masked the throbbing in his leg. Much as the screaming in his mind masked the wailing of the sirens in the distance. Somewhere in the deepest recesses of his consciousness, he knew that he had to get away from here quickly. Physically, that wasn't going to be possible…

* * *

"Attention all units," the police radio crackled to life. "911 called in at 62 Grummet near Vines. Any units in that area please respond."

"That's us, Cris," Detective Renee Montoya said. Allen was already answering the dispatcher.

"…We're on our way," he finished, closing the channel. "What do you think, Renee?" he asked.

Montoya sighed. "Probably need an ambulance, not us. We still have to check it, though… what the HELL?" This last as they came up to the smoking crater that had, apparently, been 62 Grummet.

Allen swore. "Think anyone was inside?"

"If there was," Montoya said judiciously, "I don't think they got out in time. Park the car. Let's look around."

Cris Allen complied. "Arson, you think?"

Renee got out of the car, and slammed the door shut behind her. "Could be. Or," she said in a slightly different tone of voice, noting a small knot of people clustered at the mouth of the adjacent alley, "someone might've made it out after all." She approached, badge out. Allen followed.

"GCPD," she announced, briskly, brandishing her badge. "What's going on?" Noone answered her. The half-dozen or so people backed away, mumbling. Then she saw what… or rather who… had caught their attention.

"Stay back, Cris," she ordered softly. "Warn me if anyone's coming." _Please hear me, Batman. Please do something to distract me so I can turn around, and you can pull that vanishing act. Damn, I don't want to be the one who brings you in!"_

"Batman?" she whispered, noting, almost in passing, the two bodies nearby. Her eyes widened. _The older guy looks familiar from somewhere. Now where have I seen him, before?_ "Batman?" She repeated, more urgently. There was no response save his laboured breathing. "Batman, it's Renee Montoya, GCPD. What happened here?" His back was to her. He hadn't moved at all at her approach. When she reached his position, she took in the broken leg at a glance. _Oh, sh--. We've actually caught him._ "Cris," she called behind her, "call an ambulance. We've got an injured party, here." She hesitated, not wanting to utter the next words. Duty forced her. "Request backup, too. It… it's Batman." _I don't want to do this. But if I have to, I'd better get it right._ _And I've seen him get out of some tight situations, before. _

Allen came forward. "Oh, sh--"

"My sentiments, exactly. Watch the alley. Warn off anyone getting too close. We don't want word to get out to the media."

"Akins?"

Good point. By rights, the police commissioner should be notified, directly. But his opposition to Batman was far more personal than professional. And, ever since the gang wars, Akins had been trying--trying too hard--to prove to the city, read: press, that his people could do their jobs without outside interference. _Once he finds out… he'll probably IGNITE that media circus_. "It could be a false alarm," she said unconvincingly. "We notify him when we're positive. That way, if we're wrong, he doesn't make a fool of himself on the air."

"Sounds good," Allen said. "Stick to that version, and I'll back you. Did you Miranda-ize him, yet?"

Montoya shook her head. "Batman?" Hesitantly, she placed a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, and drew in his breath noisily. "Batman, I'm--I'm placing you under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…"

He heard, but did not react. This wasn't happening to him. He had not just lost surrogate father and surrogate son in one night. He wasn't sitting in an alley, injured, too spent to resist. _Have to get away. They'll find out who I am. _He recognized this, but didn't move. _Alfred always told me to take responsibility for my mistakes…_

"Batman? Do you understand these rights as I have read them?"

He hadn't been paying attention, but he knew the drill. He ducked his head, once, then lifted it.

Montoya sat down on the pavement next to him. "I'm sorry," she said miserably. "I really didn't think it would come to this."

"Ambulance's here," Allen called. "And backup."

A moment later, two attendants approached with a stretcher. Six officers followed on their heels.Including one gung-ho rookie with a drawn service revolver. He brandished it in the direction of the fallen vigilante. "Don't you flipping move, creep! Put your hands on your head!"

One of the paramedics glanced up angrily. "Detective, could you--"

Montoya was already on her feet and in the young officer's face. "Is it 'don't move' or 'hands on head', Rookie?" she snapped. Did you happen to notice that he's already _in_ custody? Right now, your job is to help secure this crime scene. I'd suggest you start doing it, and let the paramedics do theirs. Got it?" The much-chastened officer mumbled an incoherent apology and stumbled off in the direction of one of the bodies.

She turned back to watch the medical personnel as they treated Batman's leg. He didn't react. Not to the pain as they manipulated the bone, nor to the transfer from pavement to stretcher, nor to the restraints they buckled at chest and thigh, nor even to the shackle they snapped around his wrist, securing him to the bed.

"Someone want to ride in back? Just in case?" One of the paramedics asked nervously. _Yes, of course_, Montoya thought sarcastically. _He might turn violent and GLARE at you!_ Still, she welcomed the request. If there were any more on the force like that young idiot--and she could name off a few without trying--well, she didn't usually listen to reports of police brutality. She'd been investigated by Internal Affairs enough to know that oftentimes, their agenda included getting the evidence to fit their version of the truth, rather than examining the evidence to GET at the truth. But she knew that enough of her fellow officers held Batman solely accountable for the gang war, months ago, that had claimed the lives of thirty of Gotham's finest. And if any of them thought that now would be the perfect time to settle old scores… _Admit it, Renee. You've looked up to him since your teens. And now, he's going to need friends, and you want to be one of them. Stupid adolescent fantasy. Like Mom and Pop inviting Daria to Christmas dinner, and everything being alright again… Or perps staying put once they're sent away._ She smiled, bitterly. Then she thought about it. _Fantasy or not, it doesn't change the fact that he needs a few friends, right now. And if anything does happen while he's in custody, anything that you could have prevented…_

"I'll ride," she said, feigning reluctance. "Cris, follow in the unit." She'd have to track down James Gordon's forwarding phone number, she thought to herself as she approached the ambulance. And maybe, there was some way to reach one of the _sanctioned_ 'capes', and find out how to get in touch with some of Batman's former partners. It was worth looking into.

She pulled down the folding bench opposite the stretcher. "Hang in there, Batman," she whispered. "It's not over yet."


	2. Anger and Pain

**Locked Inside the Façade**

Disclaimer: All characters property of DC comics. Not mine. Wish they were.

Note: This fic inspired by a certain rumour posted at Lying in the Gutters.

_Say goodbye to music._

_Say goodbye to light._

_Anything I care for,_

_Take it from my sight._

_Let me see no future,_

_Let me hear no sound,_

_Only darkness and pain,_

_The anger and pain,_

_The blood and the pain…_

_---Lynn Ahrens, "Ragtime"_

**Chapter 2: The Anger and Pain**

Renee Montoya woke up at twenty minutes after nine the following morning. The events of the past night seemed hazy, almost surreal. But a glance at the newspaper outside her door convinced her. It had not been a dream. Batman--Bruce Wayne--she'd better get used to that idea, was in custody. And it was _her_ fault. Akins had been practically beaming, telling her she'd probably get a promotion out of this. _Right. I Miranda-ized a wounded man, while he was in severe shock and probably had no clue what I was asking him. At least I made damned sure that detail was in my report. If he does say anything incriminating, I only hope his lawyers can make use of that bit of info. _

Maggie Sawyer, head of Major Crimes, and her direct superior, had understood her feelings, thankfully. She'd even offered her some time off--unpaid, of course--if she wanted it. Renee had demurred, asking instead if she could be assigned to the detail charged with keeping Batman in police custody.

"Somehow, I don't think you're worried about him getting away," Sawyer had said.

"No," Renee had admitted. "I'm worried about _him_."

Maggie had sighed. "I'll get your name on the approved personnel list. You want to spend your off-duty hours in that room… it's up to you, but you won't get overtime for it. We've got enough good officers pulled for that particular assignment, as it is. Between you and me? Once Akins gives that press conference tomorrow, what happened last summer is going to look like a camp colour war."

Damn. She hadn't thought of that. And she should have. She'd been new to the force when Bane had come to Gotham. The night he'd dumped Batman in Robinson Square, the city had erupted in violence. It had been forty-eight hours of hell, before the Dark Knight had been back in action. _By taking him into custody, had she just handed Black Mask the final victory he needed?_

Apparently, Sawyer had read her thoughts. "Whatever happens tomorrow will NOT be your fault. As long as you're out there, doing your job and helping to keep a lid on things." She had frowned. "You were first on the scene last night?"

"It's in the report," Montoya had answered. "Riddler'd left a calling card at Connie's Conundrums about five minutes away. We'd just finished checking it out, when the 9-1-1 came in. We were closest. It was on our direct route back to the precinct…"

"See, that's what I like about you, Renee," Maggie had said. "You're more concerned with getting the job done than worrying about whose job it is in the first place. Go home. Get some sleep. And, if you're sure about spending your time off at the hospital, I'm putting you down for 1 to 5 tomorrow."

She had obeyed, automatically. For the life of her, she couldn't remember leaving the precinct, driving back to her apartment, or going to sleep. But here she was, awake in her own bed, so she must have done so.

The press conference was scheduled for eleven a.m., sharp. She wasn't going to watch. She was going to get on her track suit and head for her usual jog in Robinson Park, after which she would trot home, shower, throw together a lunch… make that a lunch and supper… and try to figure out how in heck she was going to reach…Robin… Nightwing… Batgirl…was there anyone else? She tried to remember who Batman's allies had been during the No Man's Land. Huntress? Azrael was dead, wasn't he? Was Oracle a person or a computer? _First things first. Start out by contacting the ones you know HOW to reach._ Picking up her receiver, she dialled the area code for Metropolis, followed by 555-1212. She answered the recorded questions firmly. Metropolis. Gordon, James. Yes, she did want a residential number. A moment later, she had her answer. Two minutes after that, she was speaking with former Commissioner Gordon, doing her best not to fall apart on the line. He didn't ask many questions, and she was grateful for that. He was only interested in facts, not inferences. After what seemed an eternity, she heard:

"Barbara and I will be on the next available flight."

"Barbara?" He was bringing his daughter in?

"There are reasons."

And they were none of her business. "Yes, Commis-I mean… Sir."

"How is he?"

"Not good."

There was a pause. "How are _you_?"

Her voice faltered. "Not… good."

"Detective," and suddenly the old authority was back in his voice, "First off, I'm assuming by now, somebody has told you not to blame yourself. If they haven't, consider yourself told. It they have, believe them. Second, I'm counting on you to do everything in your power to keep the situation stable. Hold down the fort, until we get there. And, third, Renee… this isn't No Man's Land. And Akins isn't Jordan Rich, understand? Don't even think about losing the book on this one."

Montoya nearly dropped the receiver. "You… knew about that?"

"Toss the rules, and toss any credibility you've built with Akins." Gordon ignored the question. "He doesn't know what kind of worm-can he's about to open. Once he realizes, there won't be many people he'll feel safe relying on. Be one of them. See you, shortly, Renee."

"Sir? About contacting some of his people? Any idea how to reach them?"

"If Akins honours you with a private office… try leaving the window open late at night."

Renee let loose a startled chuckle. "And for now?"

"Odds are, they'll find you." The line went dead.

Renee replaced the receiver, still smiling. She'd forgotten that about Gordon: somehow, even when the situation appeared to be at its bleakest, he never gave up. Even his retirement had been more a natural next step than a surrender to the inevitable. _…There won't be many people he'll feel safe relying on. Be one of them._ She hadn't told Gordon, but after last night, she was seriously considering resigning from the force. Had he guessed? She shook her head. If she was going to take that jog, she had to get moving.

* * *

Barbara Gordon was finally getting around to the business of settling in. She'd rented the Metropolis apartment months ago, after she'd decided to leave Gotham. Dad had immediately stated that if she left, he would follow. He didn't have much family left, as it was. So, rather than tell her father that she was currently planning to live aboard a state-of-the-art Citation X aircraft, she had rented the apartment already furnished, given that address to her father, and then, she had blithely moved aboard the Citation X as planned.

Although Zinda had been good about piloting the craft into Metropolis every week or so, so that she could join her father for dinner, Barbara had realized that sooner or later, she'd be expected to invite him over. Or he might decide to drop by. And since she'd hardly been the out-of-doors type in Gotham since Joker had stuck her in her chair, it would be difficult to explain why she was suddenly never home when he called.

So, here she was, months later, taking a few weeks to set up a home office, as she euphemistically called her computer "womb", and to at least familiarize herself with her surroundings… the grocery store, the computer supply outlet, the contents of her kitchen cabinets… She'd informed those who needed to know that Oracle would be off-line for the next seventy-two hours for scheduled maintenance, read re-installing and rebooting her systems. _See, Helena. I'm not like HIM. I can trust the world to get along fine without me for a little while, okay? _Actually, if everything went well with the installation, she might be up again in a little over forty hou--

Her intercom sounded. Turning on her brand-new security camera, she saw her father frowning up. "Dad?"

"Let me in, Barbara," he ordered in a tone that would brook no refusal. She buzzed him up.

As she opened the front door to him, he strode in so quickly that Barbara was forced to wheel backwards to allow him entry. "Dad, what's happened?"

"I had a call from Montoya, a half hour ago. Bruce Wayne was arrested last night. There's a taxi waiting outside. Pack what you need for a few days--if you need more--"

"Wait. Bruce Wayne was arrested? For what? And what has that got to do with us?"

Gordon's eyes narrowed. "You haven't heard?"

She hadn't turned on her computers yet. Hadn't gone down to the store to buy a newspaper this morning. And the radio was too much of a distraction when she was trying to assemble circuitry. _I shut myself off for twenty-four hours and the world goes to hell in a zip attachment._ "No," she admitted. "I haven't. What's going on?"

He sighed. "You're probably better off finding out about it this way, then. Barbara, Alfred Pennyworth… died last night." He saw his daughter's hand fly to her mouth in shock but continued. "Montoya found his body in an alley. Batman was on the scene, in no condition to resist arrest."

Barbara gasped. "That's…" _Wait one minute…_ "Dad? Y-you said _Bruce Wayne_ was arrested--"

Gordon cut her off. "That's right, _Oracle_, I did."

"_What_ did you just call me?"

"Would you prefer 'Batgirl'? I understand that girl Cain trained is currently wearing that costume, but if you'd rather--"

_I am not hearing this. I am NOT having this conversation with my father… Alfred CAN'T be--Batman wasn't…_ "How do you _know_ these things?"

Gordon leaned forward, placing his hands over her own. "Because, Barbara, I am _not_ stupid. And neither are you. And this is too important for us to dance circles around each other pretending we don't know what's been staring us in the face all along. He needs us. We're going. It's that simple. Now pack."

Numbly, Barbara opened a closet and hefted out a suitcase. With her current on-the-go life, at any given time, she had a week's worth of clothes at the ready. "Done," she said, forcing a smile. "There are… some others who would have to be contacted. Batgirl, Robin…"

"Nightwing," Gordon supplied. "Just because you two broke up--"

"G-d, do you know _everything_?"

"I _was_ a detective for a couple of decades before they shoved me behind a desk. I didn't leave my deductive reasoning in the glove compartment of my last patrol car. In other words, when after months of hearing you talk about how much you're looking forward to Dick joining you for dinner, his name suddenly seems to drop out of your vocabulary, again, I'm not dumb. Call him."

Barbara hesitated. "We… haven't spoken since right after I left Gotham. I wouldn't know where to find him."

Barbara hadn't seen _that_ expression directed at her since the day he'd found out that she'd knowingly kept Janie Wharton's eating disorder to herself. That decision had nearly cost Janie her life. When James Gordon had learned of his daughter's involvement, he had been more disappointed than angry. She had let him down. And knowing how saddened he was by her lack of judgment had shamed her more than any dressing-down could have.

"You know where to start looking, Barbara. Stop making excuses, and start doing what you have to."

* * *

"What. Happened. Last. Night?" A harsh voice gritted from the shadows. Montoya jumped. _Get a grip, Renee. There aren't very many people who would be asking you THAT question in THAT tone…_

She squared her shoulders and stepped back one pace. "I suppose it would be asking too much for you to come out where I can see you."

Silence. Renee waited, feeling a slight twinge of apprehension. After a moment, a tall figure in blue and black somersaulted lightly down from an overhead perch.

"You were the arresting officer," he said flatly.

"Yes."

"Tell me."

"Excuse me?"

"I heard Akins' press conference. They're trying to paint you as a hero."

Montoya turned the words over, looking for some hint of outrage or bitterness in his tone. She didn't find one. He was simply stating an opinion.

The figure dropped his menacing posture. At rest, Montoya was struck by how young he suddenly seemed. "Funny thing is, you're not acting like one. See, if I were in your position, and I'd just made the collar of the century, I'd either be off to have a few drinks with my buddies, or whistling as I walked back to my car. You, on the other hand…"

"What do you want from me, Nightwing?" She snapped. "He was wounded. There was no way that he was going to get away from the scene of the explosion on his own. He wasn't even trying. You think I _wanted_ to find him there like that? You think I'm _looking_ for a ticker-tape pa--you know something? Forget it. Just… forget it. I don't even know why I'm bothering telling you this. Assuming you didn't show up to deliver some sort of--of payback for last night…" She broke off, seeing the look of horror on his face.

"No!" He exclaimed. "I'd never--" he sighed. "But coming up to you that way gave you every reason to think so. Detective Montoya, I'm sorry. All I can say in my defence is that as bad as today must have been for you, it was worse for me."

_That_, she could believe. "Why _did_ you want to talk to me?"

"Because I don't think I'm going to be able to talk to _him_. And I really want to know what happened after you took him into custody."

Montoya considered for a moment. "My apartment. Forty-five minutes?"

"Done."

* * *

_How many officers did it take to guard one man chained to a stretcher? Montoya wondered disbelievingly. It looked like half the night shift had turned out for this. They'd practically had to fight their way through a crowd of reporters and photographers to navigate the ten feet or so from the ambulance to the emergency room. Hospital security--bless them--intervened at that point, and for an instant, Montoya hoped the worst was over. Then they'd been directed to one of the examination rooms, and a veritable sea of blue uniforms had surrounded them. _

_One officer, a lieutenant Montoya had never before laid eyes on, approached the head of the stretcher. "Let's get this over with," he said reaching toward Batman's cowl._

_That action provoked a greater reaction from the prisoner than anything Montoya had said or done that evening. Batman tried to twist away from the officer's outstretched hand, but his manoeuvrability was decidedly limited._

"_Come on," he said with annoyance, swatting away the vigilante's hands._

"_No." Batman's voice was barely a whisper._

"_Batman," Renee said, "you know we have to do this,"_

_Batman shook his head frantically. "Booby-trapped," he managed to say as the hapless lieutenant took a firm hold of the mask. Electricity crackled, and the man let out a shriek. A half-dozen service revolvers suddenly pointed at the costumed vigilante._

"_He was trying to warn us! Idiots!" Montoya hissed. "Put those away. Honestly, stop acting like a bunch of amateurs or clear out." She waited for the guns to lower, before turning back to the injured man._

"_I'm sorry. You can do it," she said quietly. "Or tell one of us how. But the cowl has to come off."_

_At first, she thought he hadn't heard. But then his hands slowly moved to his face, and his fingers hooked under the edge of the Kevlar cowl…_

"And the first thing that went through my mind was 'no wonder he was able to escape police custody and remain at large for the next six months a couple years ago'," Montoya finished wearily. Oddly, seeing the face below the cowl hadn't come as a shock to her. Like finding a missing piece to a jigsaw puzzle, it was less a revelation than a completion. Bruce Wayne was Batman. It all fit. It all made sense.

"So, I suppose that makes you Dick Grayson?"

Nightwing nodded. "Did you want to haul me in, too?" he asked lightly.

"I-I'm off-duty," Montoya stammered.

He laughed, and a moment later she found herself smiling. He sobered. "Thank-you. For being there. I'm pretty sure he appreciated it." He turned toward the window.

"If you're thinking about breaking him out," Montoya called, "forget it. I was at the hospital this afternoon and there's tighter security there than at the UN. He's chained by his good ankle to the bed. With anyone else, I'd call that overkill, what with the cast on his other leg, but maybe for him it's understandable. He's got a room to himself that would normally have three other patients in it. There are two guards just inside the door. Two more at each of the two windows. There are two air vents leading into the room, and there's a guard sitting on a chair facing each of them. Another one's facing the washroom, even though that air duct is only about eight square feet. Across the street from the hospital, GCPD has commandeered the condo unit directly parallel to his room. There's SWAT on the roof, including three snipers. They've sealed off the corridor, and _nobody _gets through without photo ID, and their name on an approved personnel list. I counted a dozen officers outside his room, today. Get it?"

Nightwing nodded. "Thanks. Any chance you could provide me with a copy of that personnel list, and the hospital blueprints?"

Montoya wasn't sure whether to laugh or blow her top. "Did you not understand what I just told you?"

"Oh, I understood you just fine. And you're right. Getting to him isn't going to be easy. But if I start believing it's impossible, then it will be." He turned back toward the window.

"Wait. If I need to get in touch with you--"

"One of us will find you."

"Ni-D-Dick?"

"Mmmm?"

Montoya hesitated. "I-I'm sorry. About… Mr. Pennyworth."

Nightwing bowed his head. "So am I."

* * *

It was still his old house, Gordon noted--with the minor addition of the state-of-the-art computer system and crime lab installed in his basement. Officially, he'd sold the place, furnished and sight unseen to a certain 'Brad Westwood'. _I suppose that's slightly less obvious than Bruce Thomas, _Gordon noted sardonically. Still, it was almost as obvious as if Bruce had told him outright that he'd wanted to buy the house.

When Tim and Cass had arrived from Bludhaven, they'd taken Gordon's knowledge in stride, although he suspected that some time soon, Tim was going to ask just how Gordon had figured the whole thing out. For now, Cass was patrolling Gotham. Barbara was attempting to interface with, and wipe out all the data from the Cray computers from the 'Bat-cave' (richest man in Gotham, and he chose to work out of a _cave?_) beneath Wayne manor (alright, that explained it), before GCPD went over the grounds with a fine-tooth comb. Currently, as she explained it, she was transmitting the files to various other locations around the city. At the same time, she was attempting to tap into Central Hospital for an update on Bruce's condition, and interface with the DA's office to see what sort of case the People were building versus Batman.

They'd already discussed the matter amongst themselves and come to the reluctant conclusion that no bail would be granted. The wealthiest man in Gotham, and one of the world's premier escape artists, was, quite simply, too great a flight risk. Still, if there was to be a bail hearing, those who could safely be there to vouch for him would be.

Tim was currently yelling at somebody over a secured line. "I told you, Beren, you can name any price. I just need you to go to the morgue, identify the body, and say you're the guy's nephew. No, you won't get into trouble. Because _I'll_ get into trouble if I go myself--everyone knows I'm not a relative. Thirty thousand, Beren. In cash. Tax-free… fine! Fifty it is. ASAP. Tonight if you can. Tonight and I'll make it sixty."

Dick had returned in time to catch the end of the conversation. "Hey, Timbo," he called lightly, "while you're at it, could you raise my allowance?"

Tim shook his head, slamming down the receiver. "Seventy-five thousand out-of-work actors in LA," he groaned, "and I have to go hire the necrophobe. No, he can't go to the morgue," he said, falsetto, "it's all full of dead people!"

"Tim…"

"Sorry, Dick. I--"

Dick shook his head, with a sad smile. "You don't have to explain. I used to be the master at dealing with the serious stuff by taking it lightly--"

A gasp from Barbara diverted their attention. "They can't be serious!"

"Barbara?" Gordon asked.

She took a deep breath. "They've scheduled a hearing," she said faintly. "Four days from now."

Dick whistled. "That's short notice, but we can be there. I mean it's probably pointless, anyway, we all agreed the judge isn't likely to set bail--"

Barbara shook her head. "It's not a _bail_ hearing," Dick, she whispered. "It's a competency hearing."


	3. No Sense Keeping Secrets

**Locked Inside the Façade**

Disclaimers: See chapter 1. Kessler and Danziger belong to me. "Hearts in Armour" copyright 1992 by Mad Jack Music. Recorded by Trisha Yearwood on her _Hearts in Armour_ CD, MCA records, 1992.

Special thanks to Char, for betareading, encouragement and legal advice, especially for the info about the relationship between the JLA and the UN. Thanks also to Will44, NightJim, and Firewolfsq for Titans history.

* * *

…_Every hour that goes by_

_The harder I become_

_Because I let that well run dry_

_Because I left you unanswered_

_Then like a fool I kept my secret_

_When it made no sense to try_

_Now I can no longer keep it_

_For it's late and the moon is high_

_--Jude Johnstone, "Hearts in Armour"

* * *

_

**No Sense Keeping Secrets**

"Arkham?" Tim spoke the word uppermost in the thoughts of all four present. "They couldn't…"

"Actually," Barbara said reluctantly, "they could. Remember when Luthor framed him for Vesper Fairchild's murder? How he just… shut himself down?"

Tim nodded impatiently. "So?"

Cass took that moment to knock at the patio doors. She'd changed back to street clothes, jeans, T-shirt, and denim jacket, before arriving. Gordon let her in.

"Rough night?" Dick asked.

Cass shrugged. "Went looking for trouble. Found some. Gangs went making trouble. Found _me_." She looked around at the grim faces. "Something happen?"

Dick filled her in quickly as Barbara continued. "He was walking a very fine line that time. He wasn't helping his lawyer much, but he was able to participate just enough to avoid this kind of thing. But from what Montoya told Dick, earlier… Bruce wasn't speaking, last night. He was barely interacting--"

"Come on!" Tim protested. "Alfred had just died, how would you be reacting--"

"Jason, too," Dick interjected. At Tim's double take, he continued: "That's who the Red Hood really was."

Tim blinked. "Jason died years ago."

"That's what we all thought. But the DNA matched, and he _looked_ the part, so--"

Tim shook his head. "OK. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. What I was trying to say was that if it'd been _me_ in that alley, I'd be pretty incoherent, myself. Do we know what happened exactly?"

Dick thought for a moment. "I went to the manor before coming here. Most of what's in the cave--face it--we can't get it away in time. Best we can do is what we're already working on: transmit the files here, and to the satellite caves--"

"Wouldn't it already be there?" Tim interjected.

"Probably," Dick admitted. "But just in case, send everything through the feed and then destroy the crays." Seeing Tim's eyes widen, Dick explained, "you or Babs could probably recover any data we wiped. You want to take a chance you're the only two on the planet who could? Didn't think so. Anyway. I went to see if there was anything that absolutely _had_ to leave the cave, loaded my car with what I could… and then I set the self-destruct charges. We can detonate them from here, once the transmission's complete," he added. "So, when I was down there, I pulled up what he'd been working on last. Because I'd been wondering exactly what you were. Bruce's last log entry indicated that Alfred had been kidnapped. By Black Mask. And he thought he'd figured out where Sionis was holding him."

"The building that exploded on Grummet," Gordon stated.

"Yes, Sir," Dick confirmed. "So it looks like he made it in there in time to get to Alfred, but too late to save him." He sighed. "If Bruce isn't talking, we may never know the rest of it. But, I can guess." He drew a deep breath. "Look, when I first came to the manor, I didn't see much of Bruce. At the time, I really thought he took me in as some sort of publicity stunt. How else was I supposed to explain why he'd fight so hard to get custody of me, and then do everything he could to avoid me?" A sad smile flickered briefly on his lips. Dick continued. "It took a few weeks before Bruce let his guard down around me. I was having nightmares almost every time I went to sleep--big shock, there--and, Tim, they were pretty much the same ones you told me you used to have."

Tim nodded, remembering.

_For years, I kept having the same nightmare, over and over again. First I'd watch you do your quadruple somersault, then your parents would fall, and fall…_

"Alfred would come in every time I screamed," Dick said softly. "I thought Bruce either didn't care or had to be one heck of a heavy sleeper. And then, one night, I woke up and it was Bruce, not Alfred, who was sitting with me. That was when he told me about his parents. I must have said something about how I was sorry I was acting like such a baby about it," at Tim's shocked expression, Dick shrugged. "I was ten. Circus life was pretty rough-and-tumble. You got into fights. You got hurt. You hurt back. But you never cried--that made you a wuss. I tried explaining that to Bruce, and that was when he told me…

"_You're handling this better than I did. After my parents died, I didn't speak for almost a year, and then only to Alfred and Doctor Leslie for the longest time."_

"_And the bad dreams? You had them too?_

"_Yes."_

"_When will they stop?"_

_(Long pause) "Soon, I hope."_

That had also been one of the only times he had seen Bruce wear the costume above cave level, he remembered. Dick inhaled, held it for a few seconds, and exhaled. "Any time someone close to Bruce gets hurt, he locks himself away and he shuts himself off. He was like that when he lost his parents, when he was eight. He was like that when Joker shot me, when Jason… when we all thought Jason died…" He looked at Gordon, "When you got shot, Sir. And of course, after Vesper…" he grimaced. "I think when Spoiler died, he actually tried… reaching out. To me," he added with a pang. _And I was so caught up in my own private soap opera; all I saw was that he'd sent everyone else away again. _"Let's just say that could have gone better. Thing is, even when he closed himself off from the rest of us, he always had Alfred."

"Not always," Tim interjected. "You know he quit after Bane--"

"Because he couldn't stand seeing Bruce destroy himself. You have _no_ idea how glad he was to head back to Gotham."

"After--" He glanced at Gordon.

"Right. Quit working for Batman to work for Robin. That's a convincing way to leave someone's life. And after Vesper, he came _running_ back to help. Face it, Tim--Alfred was the one person Bruce _never_ deliberately kept out of the loop. Even recently, when he ordered everyone else out of Gotham, I bet he didn't try to talk Alfred into retiring."

"Like he'd have listened," Tim snorted.

Dick grinned back. "Want to bet Bruce knew he needed somebody who would stand up to him? But what Black Mask did…" Dick frowned. "It's Vesper all over again but worse. Bruce pushes us away because he's terrified that if he lets us get too close, he'll lose us. Alfred was the only exception. And--"

"He blames himself," Barbara interrupted. "Did you see the note Roman sent? It was in the computer. Look."

The two young men blinked at the text on the screen:

**Wayne. You want your butler. I want certain concessions from your company. Let's trade.**

A list of demands followed, demands that would, effectively, allow Black Mask's hands to extend deep into the pockets of Wayne Industries. A percentage of the profits would be diverted to offshore accounts. Some of Sionis' people would be placed in positions where they would directly influence the day-to-day runnings of the company. WE would turn a blind eye to any illicit monies that might pass through its coffers… Dick grimaced.

"Even if he'd wanted to," he said slowly, "there's no way Bruce could have gotten the board to go along with that. There are too many safeguards against that sort of takeover."

Barbara nodded bleakly. "I think Sionis knew that. And I think Bruce _knew_ he knew that. Ever since Wayne Enterprises bought out Janus cosmetics," she named the company that Roman Sionis--Black Mask--had long ago driven to the edge of bankruptcy, "Black Mask has had it in for Bruce. This was a win-win situation. Either Bruce lost his father's legacy--or his surrogate father. So Bruce moved everything moveable to try to find Alfred before the deadline was up, and…" She sighed. "When Vesper died, that was another attack on Bruce. Bruce reacted by trying to be Batman full-time. If you want armchair psychology, I think he blamed himself for putting her in danger, and decided that to atone for 'letting'--and I'm using the term loosely, letting someone die in front of him, he was going to, well, basically… let Bruce Wayne take the rap and disappear."

She almost missed seeing Dick flinch. She made a mental note to ask him about it later. For now, she added, "If he blamed himself for letting Vesper get close enough to him that Cain saw her as a target, and he reacted by 'punishing' Bruce Wayne, then… if Alfred was kidnapped for the same reason, and Batman couldn't get there in time--"

"You think he's shutting himself down completely?" Dick asked.

"I read the police report," Barbara replied. "From the description, hell, from the fact that they were able to unmask him it sure looks like it."

"Okay," Dick said grimly. "Bruce is in shock. I can see that happening. Easily. But… Arkham? There's no way Bruce is insane."

Barbara nodded. "Legal insanity and mental competency isn't the same thing, you know. Believe it or not, Joker's legally sane."

"Say what?" Tim blurted.

"I'm serious. Legal insanity means the person doesn't know the difference between right and wrong. Joker knows we don't go after people for donating to cancer research and exercising their right to vote."

"Hold on," Tim protested, "Are you saying Joker shouldn't be in Arkham?"

"No," Barbara sighed. "Don't get me started on legal insanity versus real insanity, or _I'll_ end up committed. Joker's legally _incompetent_ because he can't assist in his own defence. And, much as I hate to say it, according to the report I've just pulled up from the ER doctor, in the state he was in last night, neither can Bruce."

Dick mulled over her words. "Last night, he was in shock. Montoya told me as much. But what makes you so sure he won't snap out of it?"

Barbara sighed. "Think, Dick. After Jason died, Batman became the… the poster-boy for suicide-by-villain. Dad, when you retired and left for Europe," she turned to Tim. "He outed you to Spoiler, alienated the rest of us and behaved erratically enough that when Vesper turned up dead, most of us were willing to consider the evidence against him. And, when he decided to dump the 'Bruce Wayne' identity, he still left Sasha Bordeaux rotting in Blackgate if you recall.

"If you build walls," she said carefully, "to keep yourself from getting hurt… and then something happens to make you believe you can tear them down…" her knuckles whitened on the arms of her wheelchair, "and then… you get hurt again," she squeezed her eyes shut, lowering her head, "you rebuild the walls, and you build them higher. So that next time, you won't be as… vulnerable. And it takes that much longer, and it becomes that much harder to bring them down later. Even," she whispered, "if building those walls means you hurt… other people in the process." She looked Dick directly in the eye. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

Dick thought he did. And he didn't think she was just talking about Bruce, either. But just in case she was, he said "You don't think Bruce is going to come back to us so fast."

"He lost Jason. He lost Alfred. He was injured. He was arrested. He was unmasked. What do you think?"

Gordon cleared his throat. "Assuming all this is true, what's your next move?"

"I want to see him," Dick said firmly.

The elderly man shook his head. "They're likely to arrest you on sight. You know that."

"Story of my life, these days," Dick shrugged, trying to sound flippant.

"There's something else we need to keep in mind," Barbara said. "If Bruce wins that hearing… I just had a look at the charges the DA's office has prepared against him. It doesn't look good."

"Meaning?" Tim asked.

Barbara took a long breath. "He's facing multiple counts on all of the following," she began, "Rebellion, assault, assault with a deadly weapon--"

"Deadly?"

"Batarangs," Barbara replied. "Just because he's never aimed for the throat doesn't mean they're not sharp enough to slice the jugular."

She continued. "Assault inflicting serious injury, assault with deadly weapon inflicting serious injury--"

"They can separate it out like that?" Tim asked in disbelief.

The two former law enforcement officers nodded instantly. "You'd better believe it," Gordon confirmed, grimly. "The only question is whether they _will_. There's also malicious maiming, maliciously throwing corrosive substances, breaking and entering. Felony larceny. Obstruction of justice. Misdemeanour child abuse, otherwise known as thrusting a minor into danger on a continual basis. Want to nitpick? Toss in felony flee to elude. Vandalism. Mischief. Now, let's look at recent events. The Brown girl's death would probably be involuntary manslaughter--"

"No way!" Tim declared.

"Yes way," Barbara stated, "but that's not the kicker. Twenty-eight officers died last summer, when they followed his plan to stop the gang war. Now, it probably would get struck down to voluntary or even involuntary manslaughter, eventually, but the DA's office is likely to go for separate counts of second-degree murder first. Do you have any idea the kind of prison time that translates to? I… I really hate to say it, but he might be better off if the hearing does find him incompetent to stand trial."

* * *

He rarely slept longer than four hours at a time. Sleep brought nightmares, crazily comforting in their familiarity. Memories, nearly three decades old, of pearls, a gun, and blood on the asphalt in the middle of the night, replaying themselves in his head. The feelings of helplessness, and loss, and the terror, which always awakened him, served to intensify his resolve to create a Gotham in which no other child would become orphaned in a random mugging. Now, he awoke only to face new nightmares. _Alfred was dead. Killed before him, and he, helpless to prevent it. Jason… the son he had been unable to save. Jason had tried to redeem himself at the end, he realized, and Bruce could not bring himself to think that it had been 'too little too late'._ In point of fact, he could barely bring himself to think. Because when he did, his musings frightened him more than his nightmares. 

He had always considered the Bruce Wayne persona to be a mask for Batman to wear during his downtime. It was the image he projected to deflect suspicion away from his nighttime activities. The cowl had seemed to him to be not a mask, but a uniform. What he had failed to realize, was that Batman was also a persona. And, last night, that persona had deserted him. Even before the police had arrived on the scene, Batman had gone. Removing the cowl had been a formality. Batman had escaped, leaving Bruce Wayne behind. He was good at that… leaving others to take the consequences of his failures. James Gordon. His dependence on an 'urban legend' had cost him any chance at employment with another city's police force. And then, Batman had abandoned him to No Man's Land, while he fled to Monaco to 'recover his purpose'. _He'd assured Gordon that they were friends. But his actions had not been those of a friend. _Sasha Bordeaux. Left behind in Blackgate. _And still, she'd kept his secret, refusing to reward one betrayal with another. _Stephanie Brown. Stealing and executing his contingency plan had set off the gang-wars, but his failure to anticipate the possibility of such an occurrence had facilitated her blunder. _One password could have averted the entire situation. His fault. And Stephanie had ultimately died as a result._ _Dick had been shot. Darla Aquista… shot dead._ _Orpheus…dead. The police had trusted him, trusted him over Akins. And Batman had let himself be caught off-guard. And he had abandoned the GCPD to face the consequences of his errors. _And now, Batman had abandoned him as well. It was only fitting. And with these reflections uppermost in his mind, Bruce Wayne's eyelids lowered. As though he was asleep, his heart rate steadied, and his pulse slowed. He drew on the meditation techniques that he had learned in his travels, and cleared his mind. And there he lay, awake, yet unaware, oblivious to the passage of time.

When his lawyer, Rachel Green, arrived some time later, he registered neither her voice nor even her presence. He might have appeared to be lost in thought, but in fact, he was lost on a plane beyond thought. And he had no interest in being found.

* * *

The last time he had walked into BPD headquarters, he had thought it was the end of everything. Nothing like having your father facing 28 consecutive life sentences or incarceration in a mental institution to put your life into perspective. He pressed down on the levered handle of the door to the precinct, aware that his hands were sweating. Funny. He'd been a lot calmer when he'd turned himself in over Blockbuster's murder. _All she can do is say 'no', Grayson. Get it together!_ He barely nodded an acknowledgment to the various greetings called through open cubicles. He'd been on the phone with Roy for nearly an hour last night, and he'd reached a decision. 

While the public knew that 'Batman' was in police custody, the GCPD had not yet released Bruce's name to the media. Once they did, or once the press succeeded in finding someone--officer or hospital staff--willing to talk, it wouldn't be long before someone connected Richard Grayson with the original Robin. Although most people remained unaware that the 'vigilante known as Nightwing' had once been that Robin, Dick had to admit that it didn't take a genius to realize that when Nightwing had been a member of the Titans, Dick Grayson had been living in New York. When Nightwing took up residence in Bludhaven, so did Dick Grayson. It was ironic, really, now he thought of it. All his stupid chances that had seemed to make so much sense at the time--his acrobatic feats while in BPD uniform, going out in costume before a bullet wound sustained on his day job fully healed… (_Was that what gave me away to Desmond? Probably)_, infiltrating the Jersey mob while cleverly using his own name… and his secret identity had somehow remained relatively safe, until Bruce's capture. What he needed to do now was obtain some sort of official sanction. A long time ago, the Teen Titans had been deputized as law-enforcement agents. That status had ended when the team disbanded years ago. But if he could get that sanction back, although Akins _might_ be able to stop him from acting as Nightwing in Gotham, _maybe_ he wouldn't be arrested walking down the street. Hey. Roy wasn't, and just what was up with that?

"Grayson!" Captain Amy Rohrbach stood in the doorway of her office, arms folded; glowering like a certain bat was wont to do. "In here. Now."

This didn't look good. A thought instantly corroborated by the jeers and whistles of most of the office personnel. He squared his shoulders and strode toward the office. Amy let him pass, then shut the door behind them.

Once in private, she opened her desk drawer, pulled out a manila folder, and slammed it, opened, onto her desk blotter. "Crutches Grayson?" she demanded, scornfully. "Tell me this wasn't some other way for you to… oh, what was the phrase you used, last time--gain at_one_ment? One more crack at getting yourself arrested?"

Dick swallowed. "Amy," he started to say.

She jabbed her index finger against his sternum. "Because, let me tell you something, right now, Dick. Your UN sanction with the JLA probably _won't_ stand up if you're caught assisting a known criminal organization. So keep this up, and you might just get your wish." Her lip curled in disgust. "And that would be a real waste."

Dick had stopped listening. He had almost stopped breathing. Amy was right! As a reserve member of the JLA, he was officially deputized by the United Nations! He held special status as a member of an elite international peacekeeping force! As long as he didn't interfere with the police without being invited to do so… He wanted to cartwheel back to Gotham, triple-flip onto Akins' office windowsill, and make faces at him through the glass. He wanted to kiss his married former captain. For the first time in--G-d, how long had it been? Months? _Yes._ For the first time in nearly five months, he felt as though his shoulders had come unstapled from his neck.

Amy stopped ranting and looked at the suddenly beaming young man before her with some annoyance. She was chewing the guy out, and he was grinning like an idiot. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Grayson?" She snapped.

His smile could not have been broader if he'd taken a full dose of Joker toxin. "Every word, Amy!" He whooped. "Every single word! THANK-you!" He raced out of her office, before he really _did_ kiss her. Which turned out to be a good thing, as he nearly collided with Mr. Rohrbach on the steps outside the precinct.

* * *

As it happened, securing Akins' permission to visit Wayne had been the easy part. The current police commissioner had been more than willing to grant his predecessor that small favor. "I just want you to know, Jim," he'd cautioned, "we're keeping security to a maximum. You won't be able to enter the room with anything that he might be able to turn into a weapon." Gordon suppressed a smile. The Batman he knew _was_ a weapon, all by himself. Not that he would dream of mentioning such a thing to anyone connected with the prosecution's side. 

The hard part came trying to convince the apologetic sergeant in the corridor to let him walk in under his own power.

"For the last time, Kessler, I do not need a wheelchair--I need you to get out of my way."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Gordon," the officer returned in a placating tone, "but you can't bring any sort of weapon into the patient's room. That includes your cane."

Gordon fixed the tall man with a beady stare. "Listen, Son," he said testily, "let's get a few things clear. If you are that insistent about calling for a wheelchair, you'll be needing it a damned sight quicker than I will. Now, pay attention. My name" he pointed to himself, "is Gordon, _not _Gandalf! This," he tapped his cane on the linoleum floor, "is a walking aid, not a weapon. Now, if you'd like to take a moment to call Mike Akins and ask him whether he meant for you to take a cane away from an ex-cop old enough to be your father, go right ahead, but I am going to walk into that room, _with this cane_, to visit an old friend. Do I make myself clear?"

"Kessler," a baritone voice called, "ease off." Gordon turned to see a familiar face atop a lieutenant's uniform, approaching them. "Sir," Danziger said, "we have our orders. Nothing he can use as a weapon can come within his reach. But, the room he's in would normally hold three other patients. If you leave the cane on one of the other beds, could you manage about eight or ten steps on your own, or with one of us assisting you?"

Gordon considered. "You're really going to insist on this, aren't you?" He'd known Danziger for five years. The officer had already proven himself as a skilled hostage negotiator, oftentimes conciliatory to a fault. But, he could also dig in his heels with the best of them, should the situation call for it. And evidently, in Danziger's eyes, this situation did.

"I'm afraid so, Sir," the officer's tone was respectful but firm.

Gordon sighed. "If you people took half as many precautions with Joker and the rest of them, maybe Arkham would hold 'em longer," he muttered, resigned to the situation. He tapped his cane deliberately to the floor and advanced a step toward the doors.

* * *

"You have some nerve waltzing in here like this," Akins barked at the young man seated outside his office. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just place you under arrest and send you down to holding… What's this?" He looked at the thin plastic rectangle that had just been passed to him. 

"JLA reservist identity card," Dick said affably. "As a sanctioned member of the Justice League of America--"

Akins held up a hand. "Get in here," he ordered. Dick obeyed.

Once inside his office, Akins motioned Dick to a chair. He remained standing behind his desk, however.

_Psychological advantage_, Dick noted. _He's trying to use the height differential to intimidate me. Of course, facing down adult opponents when you're ten, you learn how NOT to get intimidated pretty quick._

"Alright," Akins said grimly. "I may not be able to bring charges against you for what happened last summer, but I _can _order you to refrain from any illegal activities in this city. As I understand it, you can't intervene in routine police matters unless we invite you. We aren't. We won't."

Dick leaned forward intently. "Are you sure about this, Commissioner," he asked seriously. "Our help in the past--"

"Police work and vigilantism don't mix. You want to help? Wear a badge."

Dick's eyes narrowed. "I did," he returned. "I'll give you that point. They don't mix. Still, last night was difficult for your people. It's going to get worse."

"Not if the lunatics don't have someone in a mask to fixate on. If you won't stay out of costume in my city, you _will _stay in Blackgate. Do I make myself clear?"

He lifted his head and met Akins' gaze squarely. "As clear as it is that you're cutting off your nose to spite your face." Dick refrained from pointing out that Akins' possessiveness regarding Gotham, and his insistence on running matters his way, reminded him sharply of someone else. A thought occurred to him: was that the underlying root of the conflict between the current police commissioner and his mentor--two men both in positions of command, neither comfortable taking orders, and neither willing to cede authority to the other? He wondered. Broaching the subject, though, would only serve to further antagonize Akins.

"Nightwing will not operate in Gotham, unless and until you request him, Commissioner," Dick said stiffly. "I would, however," he continued, "like to visit my adoptive father."

Akins frowned. "What assurances could you provide that you won't try to slip him a lock-pick? Or that you won't make some attempt to extract him from custody?"

For one fleeting instant, Dick wished he was back with the mob. Then, he could have gotten away with pummelling Akins until his face was as black and blue as the Nightwing costume. Instead, his eyes went flat, and although his mouth curved upwards in an almost-friendly smile, the voice that issued from it could have kept Victor Fries comfortable without the cold-suit. "I can give you my word," Dick replied softly, "just like I can give you my word that I will not file charges against the GCPD for opening fire on a sanctioned Law Enforcement Official last summer, while he was attempting to perform his duties. Provided I'm given the opportunity to visit your prisoner. Who, as of last summer, was _also_ a sanctioned Law Enforcement Official."

He stared intently at Akins, and it was the police commissioner who looked away first. "I'll see what I can do," he growled.

* * *

"This is as far as you can go with that, Sir," Danziger cautioned. Gordon sighed, but he leaned the cane against the footboard of the empty bed. He looked several feet over to where Bruce Wayne lay, motionless save for the slight rise and fall of his chest. A blanket covered him from the chest down, save for one leg, elevated in traction. His costume had been exchanged for a hospital gown. An untouched tray of food sat on the night-table by the bed. Gordon watched him for a moment, thinking back to earlier days. They'd both been new, then, both feeling their respective ways around a harsh, corrupt, unfriendly city. _As much as things have stayed the same in some respects, in others, they ARE better. You HAVE made a difference, my friend, never doubt that._

Danziger extended an elbow to within Gordon's reach. Gordon shook his head. "I can manage, just fine," he said, gruffly. "Just--" he hesitated. He couldn't be sure, but it seemed that for one instant, he'd heard Wayne's breath catch. One instant, and then it was back to normal. Gordon thought for a moment, then deliberately removed his eyeglasses and left them on the folded blanket at the foot of the empty bed. Then he took hold of Danziger's arm, and allowed himself to be guided to the vacant chair next to Wayne's bed.

"Are you awake?" He asked, softly.

For a moment, it appeared that Bruce hadn't heard, but then, slowly, his eyes opened, pupils sliding in the direction of the voice. They widened. "J-Jim?" he whispered. "How…" He made an effort to raise himself to a sitting position. Gordon leaned forward to help him, sliding his hands behind the younger man's shoulder blades.

Wordlessly, Bruce buried his face in Gordon's brown cardigan, as his hands gripped the sleeves. After a moment, he realized, in shock, what he was doing.

_What was he thinking?_ Bruce froze horrified. _To display this much emotion, in public? To lose the little dignity he had left? And to embarrass Gordon into the bargain…_ "Sorry," he whispered again, trying to pull away.

He couldn't. Arms, deceptively strong for their appearance, held him fiercely, tenderly in their embrace.

"It's alright," Gordon murmured. "I'm here. I'm right here. And I'm not letting go."

He struggled again, but the former commissioner's grip did not yield. And after a moment, Bruce stopped resisting him. His shoulders shook, as he fought futilely for some measure of control. He was conscious of one arm around his shoulders, supporting his upper back. Gordon's other hand was at the back of his head, gently stroking his hair. It was too much. Too much had happened, in too short a space of time. He needed to get away to compose himself. He couldn't. There was a pain in his throat, a burning in his eyes, his hands trembled. He made one more concerted effort to wrench himself loose.

"You don't have to face this alone," Gordon said gently. "Can you honestly say you want to?"

Bruce shook his head. And then, as though he were a child again, he burrowed his face into Gordon's sweater and let his tears flow. He wept for the death of his oldest friend. He'd long known that there was a good chance he would outlive Alfred, but he hadn't expected that day to come for years, yet. He wept for Jason. For the boy he had adopted and the man that Jason could have yet become. He cried for those who had once been friends and allies. Leslie, who had struggled so hard to persuade him to eschew violence. Instead, she had fallen into his abyss. She had fallen past him. And he hadn't seen, until it was too late. He grieved for those for whom he had never allowed himself to show emotion, certain that once he started, he wouldn't be able to stop. He cried like he had promised himself he would never cry again after his parents' funeral. He cried until he was sure that there were no tears left in him. And then, as had happened with embarrassing regularity these last few months, he found that this was one more occasion where he was quickly proven wrong.

Through it all, Gordon held him tightly, without hesitation, without contempt. Finally, Bruce's sobs ceased, and his breathing quieted. Jim slowly loosened his arms. Bruce shut his eyes, and settled back into the bed. He realized that he should say something. The only problem was that he wasn't at all sure he'd be able to speak without provoking a fresh flood of tears.

"Thanks," Gordon said softly.

Bruce's eyes inched open again. "Thanks?" he asked, bewildered.

Gordon nodded. "After Sarah was murdered," he explained, "I didn't think I'd ever be able to pay you back for being there for me when I needed you."

Bruce shook his head, disbelieving. "You… you didn't… you don't… owe me… for that. I… did what I could. It wasn't enough… but it was… something…" He passed a hand over his eyes. His head was throbbing. "You never owed me... for that," he managed.

Jim placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Agreed," he said with an almost fiendish smile. "According to those rules, you don't owe me anything for the last hour or so, either." Bruce blinked. He opened his mouth to say something, but Gordon cut him off. "And if you're going to insist that you do, why don't you just consider it payment for what happened with Sarah, and say we're even. Deal?"

Bruce took Gordon's outstretched hand with a reluctant half-smile. "Thanks," he said softly. "I… I wish you hadn't seen…"

Gordon squeezed his shoulder. "Don't worry," he said. He pointed toward the bed nearest the door. Bruce's eyes followed the trajectory of his finger to where the cane and a pair of eyeglasses reposed. "You know, I'm practically blind without my glasses."

Bruce's eyes widened as he recalled the last time he'd heard Gordon utter that phrase. For the briefest of instants, a very real smile flashed on his face. "You've known since…"

Gordon nodded. "Suspected strongly," he admitted. "I preferred not to pursue certain lines of inquiry that would have clinched those suspicions, but yes. I think, deep down, I've known that long." He shrugged. "You're hardly in a position to lecture me about keeping secrets. Now…"

Bruce saw him reach for the untouched breakfast tray. He shook his head. "I… I'm not hun--"

Gordon pulled the lid off the tin of fruit cup. "Eat it or wear it," he ordered.

* * *

"How could we have forgotten about the JLA sanction?" Barbara asked, incredulous. 

Dick grunted as he lifted another carton out of the trunk of his car. Barbara wheeled back from the door connecting the garage to the rest of the house so that Dick could set it down with the others, in one hastily-cleared corner of the basement crime lab. He swung his arms back and forth to get the pins-and-needles feeling out of them. "You know Bruce," he said. "He doesn't like asking for help, period. How long did he try to go it alone during No Man's Land?"

"Point taken. Bet Akins was ticked."

Dick grinned. "He wasn't that surprised, you know. Until I threatened the lawsuit."

Barbara laughed. "I still can't believe you did that!"

"He deserved it. And for what may be the first time ever, it wasn't an empty threat. Once my ID becomes public, I actually _will_ have a few more options."

Barbara turned on her equipment to monitor the police band frequency. "Just don't get carried away, Former Boy Wonder. Your JLA membership gives you international police powers, not diplomatic immunity. And if your ID is public, they'll be able to find you that much more easily."

Dick sobered. "I know. I'm just trying to get used to the situation, now, before all of this hits the newspapers. How long do you think we have?"

"Some orderly could be giving the _Post_ an exclusive as we speak. It could be hours, days at the most." She looked up from her computer array. "Are you… really okay with this?"

Dick shrugged. "Maybe I'm tired of all the wrong people finding out anyway. It might just be a relief to be able to assume from the start that everybody knows already, and work from there."

"Beren called Tim," Barbara said. "They should have the autopsy results by tomorrow, so…"

"We'll need to make the… the funeral arrangements," Dick closed his eyes. "It hasn't really sunk in, yet. I can't afford to let it sink in until we get Bruce out."

Barbara wheeled over and placed a hand over his wrist. "It's not like you can schedule these things," she said, quietly.

"Bruce and I can't fall apart at the same time," he replied. "One of us has to be the strong one. Right now, it has to be me." The conversation was making him uncomfortable. He had to change the subject. "By the way, I found something in the cave I bet you didn't know Bruce had," he said. He pulled the lid off of one of the cartons.

"Dick."

"Just one sec'…"

"Dick, listen to me. Please."

He stopped, and slowly straightened up.

Barbara hesitated. "I guess, first, I'm sorry." She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. "I got scared. Of how good things were going, of where we were headed. I knew something was going to happen to mess us up, soon, so I… I pre-empted it." She looked up. "I loved that when I was with you, I could forget about the chair, because you never seemed to notice it until I brought it to your attention. Somehow, I managed to twist that around until I had myself believing that you were in denial, and convinced that this was temporary. Or that you didn't appreciate that, despite all my electronic toys and my custom van, the chair does limit me. Talk about projecting. Anyway, I don't know everything that happened after you left, that night, but from what I do know, you've had a lot going on. I understand if you don't want to talk to me, right now, but…" she hesitated. "Don't get angry."

She was silent for so long that Dick finally had to ask, "About?" In a way, the pause had been a good thing. It had given him time to compose himself before opening his mouth.

Barbara sighed. "Bruce taught us… a lot. Some things that we picked up, though, I don't think he meant for us to, and… well… let's take me. I… manipulated things on a mission, so that Helena had to confront some of her… issues. She figured it out, and blew up. Rightfully. But one of the things she told me was that I was just like… like Bruce. And it wasn't a compliment. And she was right. I'm telling you this, because, if you think about what you were saying before, it sounds like you're planning to deal with things by suppressing them. And that's another one of Bruce's techniques. And I don't think it's a good one to pick up."

"Babs…"

"Dick. Listen. Talking something out is not 'falling apart'. Calling a friend who's been through something similar and asking for coping strategies is not 'weakness'. If you're not comfortable opening up to me, after everything that's happened, I understand. Call Roy, call Wally… hell, talk to Hal Jordan if you think it'll do some good. But don't keep it all in. I think we've all seen enough of what that does to Bruce."

She waited. Dick was silent, but he at least seemed to be considering her words.

A text message began to flash on one of her monitors. She excused herself and wheeled over. A groan escaped her lips. "It's only been dark for a half-hour or so, and Escobar's old crew is down at the docks. So's the Jade Serpent triad."

"Drug-related?" Dick asked, instantly professional.

Barbara hesitated. "Could be." She punched a code onto one of her consoles. "I'll get Cass to check into it. Robin's in Bludhaven, tonight," she added. "Penguin's up to something."

"Penguin's always up to something," Dick remarked as Barbara began relaying instructions to Cass.

Once the link was terminated, she smiled, half-heartedly. "Well, he's up to more than usual. About…"

Dick held up a hand. "I know. Believe me, I know. And don't worry, I'll deal with things, but not right this second. Oh, before I forget," he withdrew his hand from behind his back, and pitched something small, and blue and grey onto her lap, "here."

Barbara looked at the Batgirl beanbag doll that had sat on her workstation in the Clock Tower for nearly five years. "Oh my gosh!" She gasped with a startled laugh. "Where did you find…"

Dick grinned. "In the cave. I guess Bruce must've found it in the rubble, afterwards. Thought you might like it back."

"Omigosh, yes!" She exclaimed. "Dick, I-I don't know what to say…"

"Then don't say anything. But when you don't have your work distracting you," he said hesitantly, as he gestured to the computers, "maybe we could try… I could try… talking. If you don't mind that you'll probably end up hating me by the time I finish," he said lightly.

"Dick Grayson, I could never hate you," Barbara insisted. At that moment, the police band frequency crackled to life.

"_Officer down! We need assistance. Any units in the vicinity of Cameron and Weisinger please respond…"_

Dick started forward. "That's only about ten blocks from here."

"Dick, if you go out there…"

"Listen to the band, Babs. The nearest unit is over twenty minutes away." He gestured to the monitors. More lines of text were appearing every few seconds. "There are looters downtown, Riddler's at large, and Cornelius Stirk's been on the loose for sixteen hours. I have to help."

Barbara bowed her head. "I know," she admitted. "You're right. But if Akins finds out, you're either going to have to leave Gotham, or wear a disguise around the clock. And forget trying to see Bruce." She sighed. "I mean, you gave him your _word_, and now you're about to break it."

Dick smiled. "No," he said slowly. "No, I'm not. I promised Akins that _Nightwing_ wouldn't be operating in Gotham without his permission. And I'm going to keep that promise." He reached back into the same carton from which he'd extracted the Batgirl doll. "I'm still going out tonight, though," he said as he pulled out a black cape with a pointed-ear cowl attached to it. "I'll just have to wear a different suit."


	4. No Such Thing As No Regrets

**Locked Inside the Façade**

Disclaimer: All characters except Burton, Fontana, and Colletta property of DC comics. Not mine. Wish they were. "Almost Home" copyright 1999 by Sony. Recorded by Mary Chapin Carpenter on her _Party Doll_ CD.

Note: This fic inspired by a certain rumour posted at Lying in the Gutters.

Special thanks to Char and Patty for beta-reading, and to Marcusdriver on the DC boards for background info on Detective Romy Chandler.

A/N: Although Batman quit the JLA shortly before the League disbanded, it occurred to me that this fact would probably not be generally known. Thus, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, Batman's JLA membership ended when the League itself ceased to exist.

* * *

_I was lost just for a moment_

_In the wake of old goodbyes_

_Sometimes all that we can know is_

_There's no such thing as 'no regrets'_

_Baby it's all right_

_I'm not running_

_I'm not hiding_

_I'm not reaching_

_I'm just resting in the arms of the great wide open_

_Gonna pull my soul in_

_And I'm almost home_

_--Mary Chapin Carpenter, Beth Nielsen Chapman, Annie Roboff--"Almost Home"

* * *

_

**No Such Thing as No Regrets**

Officer Mark Burton was not having a good night. He and his partner, Lou Fontana had been driving through Tricorner when police dispatch had reported a possible B&E at 93 Cameron. The residence, apparently, was equipped with a home security system that immediately notified the alarm company when tripped. As per standard procedure, the company had telephoned the residence to verify the situation. When nobody answered their call, Protectarm Security Systems had notified the police, again standard procedure.

The reaction, however, had been anything but standard. A loud report, not unlike a firecracker blasting off, had come from behind the two officers. Whirling about, Burton had noted two things: A car, previously parked across the street from the residence, suddenly accelerating forward, and Fontana crumpling to the cobblestone walkway, a dark, wet, spot visible on the right shoulder of his Kevlar vest, radiating outward from a hole that had not been there a second before. Beneath Burton's horrified glance, the spot grew steadily bigger. His heart began to pound. Frantic, he dashed back to his patrol unit. His sweating hands fumbled the radio controls, as he relayed the message no dispatcher ever wanted to receive: _"Officer down! We need assistance. Any units in the vicinity of Cameron and Weisinger please respond…"_

From the window of the car, Burton thought he saw two shadowy forms leap from the roof of the residence to that of the next house over. He bit back a curse. He couldn't leave Lou. And, without backup, there was no way he was going to pursue those suspects, in any case.

"_Copy that, Unit 14. Ambulance on its way, ETA 15 minutes, minimum. Additional units are being dispatched to your position, ETA 35 minutes."_ Burton shook his head. Fifteen minutes or more for an ambulance. How long did Fontana have? He looked out at his partner, unmoving on the front walk. The perpetrators were long gone by now, he reminded himself furiously. He left the vehicle, moving, with some trepidation, to where his partner lay bleeding. He was breathing, barely, but the breaths were slow, shallow, and laboured. Suddenly Burton went cold. Like himself, Fontana was wearing a bulletproof vest. But he was bleeding from a gunshot wound. But that meant… _armour-piercing bullets. Oh… crud. This was bad. This was very bad._ He bent down next to Fontana.

"Buddy?" He whispered. "Lou, can you hear me?"

"He's having trouble breathing," A harsh voice whispered. "You know emergency first aid?"

Burton didn't look up. "Wha-what?"

"First aid." The voice paused, waiting for an answer. When none was forthcoming, it continued, "move."

"Wha-?"

"Move!" Instinctively, Burton responded to the order, sensing, more than seeing the other person move into the position that he had just vacated. "What's his name?" The figure asked, bending low to examine the fallen officer.

"F-Fontana," Burton stammered. "Louis Fontana." He stared at the shadowy form hovering over his partner. The man was wearing a hood of some sort, with two spike-like protuberances rising from the crown, like horns… or ears. But… but, he was supposed to be in custody, wasn't he?

In one swift motion, Batman removed his cape and laid it horizontally across the fallen officer's upper back, arranging it so that one end lay directly over the entry wound. He hastily folded the rest of the cape several times, creating a pad. "Louie?" He asked softly. "Louie, can you hear me?"

Burton shook his head, disbelieving. Who would have thought a guy that scary-looking could sound that… gentle?

"Take it easy, pal," Batman continued. "EMTs are on their way. We just need you to hang in there until they show up, okay, Louie?"

"Ummm…" Burton coughed. "It's 'Lou'. He hates 'Louie'." He felt his face grow hot. _Lou_ was down, maybe dying… Batman was trying to help, and he, Burton couldn't do anything better than correct him on the proper nickname? He was such a moron! To his surprise, the cowled figure merely nodded.

"Sorry, Lou," he said. Suddenly, he looked up, cursing. Fontana had stopped breathing. Batman's glance fell on Burton. "Come here," he instructed. Burton complied, hesitantly. "There's blood on his face. Looks like the lung's been damaged, and he's slipping into shock. I need your help."

Batman needed his help? They were in trouble. Burton crouched down next to his partner. "What do I do?" he asked.

The masked man paused. "We have to stop the bleeding," he said, thinking aloud, "which means we have to apply direct pressure to the wound… but we can't move him around too much, or we risk shifting the bullet. But we've got to get him breathing again… Damn." He looked at the officer kneeling beside him. "Alright," he said resolutely. "You. Jacket." For an instant, Burton stared, confused. Then realization hit, and he quickly removed the lined jacket he wore over his vest and uniform.

The others on the force kidded him about wearing his coat on all save the hottest of summer nights. Burton didn't care. He happened to be more sensitive to cold than most, and was more than willing to put up with a bit of teasing so long as he remained warm. _And the best treatment for shock…_ he realized, as Batman took the garment from him and draped it over Fontana.

"Alright," Batman said again. "If you know any prayers, now would be a good time to start saying them. Specifically, pray that the bullet didn't send bone shards into his spinal cord. If it did, we're about to make matters worse. Now. What I'm going to do is turn _Lou_, here, over, so I can get at his airway. I need you to keep his torso elevated, and keep pressing on the wound. I'm going to start rescue breathing. And let's hope the ambulance gets here, fast. Got it?"

Burton nodded. He swallowed. "You don't know what you're doing, either," he said miserably.

"Get ready," Batman said, as if he hadn't heard. "On three… one… two… thr" and Burton was supporting Fontana's upper body. Batman exhaled. "You're okay holding him like that?" he said, tilting Fontana's chin and pinching his nose shut. When Burton nodded, Batman covered Fontana's mouth with his own and gave two long slow breaths. He hesitated, and then placed index and middle finger to Fontana's carotid artery, checking for a pulse. Five seconds later, he gave another breath. He waited another five seconds before repeating. After the fifth or sixth repeat of the procedure, Lou drew a breath of his own. Officer and vigilante sighed, relief palpable.

"You have a name?" Batman asked.

"Burton. Mark Burton," he said dully.

The masked man absorbed that as he moved one hand to each side of Fontana's head, holding his neck immobile. "Thanks for the assist, Mark. What happened before I got here?"

Burton frowned, trying to remember. It felt like years since they'd parked the squad car. "Burglar alarm went off," he said finally. "The perps had a lookout."

Batman frowned. "With armour-piercers." It wasn't a question. "Perps?"

"Hopped the rooftops. The lookout drove off."

The Dark Knight's jaw clenched. "The lookout fired on an officer, and drove away. The thieves took a riskier escape route than…" he broke off as sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder with each passing second. "Something doesn't add up," he muttered, as the ambulance pulled up.

If events had moved swiftly before, Burton now felt as if the Flash had carried him a quarter-mile. He and Batman helped the two paramedics logroll Fontana onto a stretcher and carry him carefully into the waiting ambulance. Everything became a blur, as Burton donned a pair of latex gloves, and did as he was instructed. Somewhere in the middle, Batman vanished. One moment, Burton saw him pass an IV bag forward to one of the medical personnel, the next, it was as if he had never been there. Although the abandoned cape, and the night air breezing in from the rear door gave evidence to the contrary.

* * *

"You copy that, Oracle?" Dick asked. 

"I am _never_ going offline again," Barbara's disgusted voice came through his comlink. "It's too frustrating playing catch-up. Near as I can figure, Signorello's had a real run of bad luck. First he tries to corner the Gotham drug trade. When we put a stop to that idea, it looks like he took all the capital he'd raised and reinvested it in munitions."

"Cop-killer bullets?" He made sure nobody was watching before driving his motorcycle onto a barricaded turnoff, past a sign that read: Bridge Out.

"Well," Oracle said, "it's not like I have a signed charge copy with a credit card imprint, but there _is _a cash trail. Large shipment of ammunition intended for the military goes missing. Amount of cash totalling street value of said ammo plus a little bit extra suddenly disappears from Signorello's accounts. That officer who was shot, Louis Fontana, happens to have been one of the arresting officers of one Minas Celani. The man was doing some low-level enforcing for Black Mask, but he's connected to Signorello as well.

Dick nodded to himself as he drove his motorcycle around a slow sharp curve and into one of the ancillary 'caves', more like a bunker, really, that Bruce had established some years earlier. Things were beginning to make sense. "The burglary was a set-up," he stated as he parked the bike. He noted with satisfaction the two cars parked before him. They were designed to look like ordinary sedans. The touch of a button, however, would alter them to something quite a bit sleeker, armoured like a tank, and rigged for stealth. That which he thought of as Batmobile, by any other name… he shook his head, trying to focus on the voice coming through his comlink.

"The burglary was convenient," Oracle corrected. "I'm not the only one with the capability to monitor police communications. If someone connected with the mob was able to tap into that frequency…"

"The mob would have known where Fontana and Burton were headed, and sent someone to intercept. It also gave Signorello the chance to make sure he got the ammo he paid for. So, if you're right, the Gotham mob now has access to dozens of rounds of cop-killer ammunition?"

"No," Oracle replied. "If I'm right, the Gotham mob now has access to fifteen _hundred_ rounds of cop-killer ammunition. Not to mention standard ammo, and an assortment of rifles and handguns."

"We were wrong," Dick said, as he opened the costume locker and removed a fresh cape. "Us, the cops, the press… we've all been calling what happened last summer a war, when it was a pitched battle." He fastened the cape to the cowl. "If that… arsenal doesn't get off the streets, and soon, we're all going to learn the difference first hand."

* * *

Sitting at his desk at police headquarters, Commissioner Michael Akins felt his ulcer flaring up again. 

On the desk before him was that day's newspaper, opened to 'Drawn from Other Quarters: a sampling of editorial cartoons from across the country.' The page ran on Sundays. What aroused Akins' ire was a single panel depicting a balding man in full police dress standing atop a high building labelled "Gotham Police HQ". At the building's base, angry crowds were rioting. The man was standing next to a large floodlight. In the night sky, a large "S" emblem shone, near a stylized "W" and a jagged lightning bolt. A second man was in the process of laying an emblem looking roughly like a circle super-imposed on a cylinder--the Green Lantern symbol--onto the floodlight, next to the other three icons. The caption beneath the panel read: Why isn't anybody coming? Was it something I said?

Akins buried his head in his hands. The night was not going well. And now, to top it off, _Batman_ had been spotted. That simply wasn't possible. Wayne was under arrest, and Wayne was Batman. He knew that. He'd sent the costume and gadgets for analysis. If the man in custody wasn't Batman, he had to be military Special Ops, or some such. There was simply no other way to explain the level of technology he'd been carrying in his belt, gauntlets, and various other places in the costume. But if Wayne was Batman, and Batman was in custody…

Akins' fist slammed down on his desk, causing the surface of the liquid in his coffee cup to leap upward, falling just shy of the rim. "Grayson!" He snarled the surname as though it was an epithet. A moment later, he dialled the media relations office and left a voicemail for Edwards to schedule a press conference tomorrow afternoon.

* * *

Angelo Colletta excused himself from his card game and strode down the dingy corridor toward the men's room. His back to the entrance, he glanced left and right before pressing his shoulder to the dark, bullet-scarred wooden door. It gave way far too easily. Colletta lost his balance, as he half fell into the room beyond. A dark-gauntleted hand seized hold of his sleeve and dragged him the rest of the way inside, while a second gloved hand clapped itself over his mouth. It smelled of rubber, antiseptic, and blood. _Aw, no!_ Colletta groaned inwardly. _Signorello promised, no Bat interference, or I never would've agreed to do that job for him._ The antiseptic smell was making him dizzy. He hoped he wasn't about to lose his dinner. 

"Queasy?" The man holding him nearly spat the question out. "You must've been a lot less nervous when you fired that 9-milimetre about an hour ago."

Colletta squirmed, as he struggled to get loose. The hand released his jaw the instant before his captor slammed him into the wall. He felt his arms yanked behind his back and secured. While one hand continued to press him against the cold enamel tiles, the other relieved him of his gun and ammunition, then plunged into his pockets and removed their contents. His assailant then spun him about, and propelled him backwards into a toilet stall, shoving him down on the only seat available in those confines. The hand was over his mouth again, as Batman loomed over him. "We're going to have a conversation," he gritted. "Or rather, _you_ are going to talk, and _I_ am going to listen. I'm going to hear about Signorello, and Black Mask, and a load of armour-piercing bullets. If, instead, I hear you calling for help," his cape seemed to flow outwards, its inky blackness completely filling the entrance to the stall, "I can guarantee you that will be the last time you will be able to use your voice above a whisper for a very… long… time. Do I make myself clear?"

Colletta swallowed. He managed a shaky nod, and suddenly his jaw was free. He gulped in a few breaths, before Batman brought his hand sideways below his chin, forcing Colletta to look up into those dead white eyes.

"Start talking," Batman ordered.

* * *

Detective Romy Chandler walked into the GCPD cafeteria, fumbling in her pocket for loose change. The cash converter always found her dollar bills to be too crumpled to accept; the vending machines didn't take pennies, and tonight, she was apparently one nickel shy of a chocolate bar. Muttering to herself, she continued to feel about for another coin, while she took inventory of the contents of the machine. Espresso Crunches left a bitter aftertaste. Monte Christo? Good, but less filling. She needed an energy boost, maybe something nutty. A Chuckles bar? _Nutty. Chuckles. _Unbidden, a chalk-white face with unruly green hair flashed into her mind, and cackling laughter shrilled in her ears. She grunted, exasperated, as she tried to get the image out of her head. That maniac was responsible for the death of her partner. _Not solely responsible_, she reminded herself, grimly. She thought back to that winter. Major Crimes had been trying to find Angie Molina before the newscaster became the Joker's next victim. When they discovered her, chained to a bomb in a toy store stockroom, with less than five minutes to detonation, Nate had insisted that he would be able to handle things himself. He'd ordered her out of the building. As a result, Romy didn't know exactly what had happened next. But when the blast went off, she had run back into the store, in time to see her partner lying in a bloody heap… and Batman cradling Molina. The masked man had been forced to choose between rescuing a civilian, or a law enforcement officer. He had made his decision between a decent, upstanding young man with a life and career before him, who could have made a difference in this, or any other city… and an obnoxious outspoken critic of the GCPD and all it stood for. _He had chosen wrong, and Nate Patton had died for it._ Romy hadn't forgotten, and she would never forgive. 

Footfalls behind her startled her. She spun, her hand flying to her non-existent holster, to see Akins stride past her to the coffee machine. He filled his mug mechanically, and slammed it down on one of the tables.

"Commissioner?" Romy asked, concerned. "You okay?"

Akins took a long sip from his mug. He didn't answer.

"Sir?"

Akins muttered something under his breath. Romy frowned, leaning closer.

"What," Akins repeated, "have I done?"

Romy blinked. "I don't understand."

"I never thought we'd actually get him, you know," Akins said morosely. "After the stunt he pulled last summer, the way it backfired, at that moment, I could cheerfully have emptied my revolver into him. _At that moment, _Detective. But like this…" He shook his head. "This is all wrong."

Her breath caught. "You're not thinking about letting him go, Sir." Akins was silent. "Tell me you're not considering that!"

Akins steepled his fingers, and shut his eyes, for a moment. "There are twenty-eight officers gone because of that man's arrogance, Detective Chandler. I can_not_ face their families and tell them that I'm going to release the man most responsible for their deaths. I can't."

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Then… then, I don't underst-"

The commissioner exhaled wearily. "There are several hundred thousand Gothamites who are alive today because that man expended every effort to find the cure for the Clench virus about four years ago. To say nothing of the individuals he's rescued over the years. I was furious with him. I still am. But… nobody wants to go down as the 'man who puts Batman behind bars'. There was an editorial in the _Post_, today, asking for an accounting as to how much of our budget was 'wasted' on trying to bring him in, and how much we were spending now to keep him in custody, with the likes of Black Mask, Riddler and Stirk running loose." He pressed a weary hand to his forehead and slid it across to his temple, and down to his jaw-line.

"So," Romy began, "what do we do?"

Akins sighed. "According to reports I was handed a short while ago, Batman's out there, tonight." At Romy's gasp, he held up a hand. "Before you ask, Wayne hasn't escaped from the hospital, and his leg hasn't magically healed up, either. Which means there's somebody else running around in costume. That doesn't place us in the best light. It opens the door to too many questions. You know how rumours fly. First, they'll say Batman escaped. Which certainly doesn't make us look good. Then, they'll start asking whether we're positive we have the right man in custody. Which makes us look worse."

Romy nodded, grimly. _If it comes down to a choice, I'll bet Molina and Chen come out supporting Batman over the GCPD on the airwaves_, she thought. "Is there any way to fix things?"

"I hope so," Akins intoned. "I'm calling a press conference for tomorrow. We're going to announce that we're holding Wayne, and why. As for the guy in the suit, I've got a pretty good idea who he is, but I'm not going to make accusations without evidence. Too much potential for this whole thing blowing up in our faces." His index finger polished the rim of his coffee mug.

"I really hope he snapped," Akins continued. "I hope to G-d he's not in his right mind. If that hearing finds him incompetent, then we can justify the expenditures, say we had to hunt him down because in his existing mental state he poses too great a threat. We all know the damage he can do, the injuries he's able to inflict… if he's legally insane, then he either… gets the help he needs, or he stays safely locked away where he won't cause any further harm… and the people he's helped won't rise up in arms to defend him… the families of those officers won't accuse us of sacrificing justice to the whims of a vocal minority…" He grimaced. "In point of fact, Detective, once his attorneys pull the JLA defence, the prosecution's case basically falls apart. We're stuck charging him exclusively for crimes committed after the League disbanded. If he doesn't pass that hearing… that's the best thing that could happen for us at this point. Because if this case ever gets to trial… no matter what the outcome…" he swallowed, "we're screwed."

* * *

"Dick?" Barbara pushed herself away from the computer station. "You look like--" 

"Something the bat dragged in?" He asked lightly. The costume was ripped in a half-dozen places. The part of his face not covered by cowl, was streaked with grime, and soot. He was favouring his right leg, leaning heavily against the doorframe. Despite all of that, he was grinning broadly. "You should see the other guys." He pulled off the cowl and ran his fingers through his flattened hair.

Barbara gestured to her array of security screens. "Who says I didn't?" She asked, as he staggered to a chair and collapsed with a sigh. "Well," she continued, "I saw some of them, anyway." She wheeled over and slapped her fingers lightly on his forearm. "I also saw the medical report on Fontana. He's going to make it."

Dick brightened again. "That's great! I really hated dashing out like that-"

"You left him in good hands. Oh, and you have a message on your cell phone. Came in about two hours ago." She handed him the small device.

"Akins," Dick said, accepting the telephone from her. "He's the only one who has this number who wouldn't have tried my comlink, first." He played back the message, and frowned. At Barbara's questioning look, he said, "he wants me to meet with him at eight this morning. Sounds important." His adrenaline high was all but gone, leaving him drained from the events of the last few hours.

"Sounds like he suspects, you mean," Barbara countered sharply. "It was after two when he called."

Dick closed his eyes. "I know," he said.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Dick sighed, pulling off one of his boots. "Nothing serious. I was chasing a purse-snatcher when I tripped on some uneven ground and twisted my ankle is all." He flexed the offending joint. "Yeah, it's only twisted. Should be fine." He crossed over to the sofa, and stretched out full-length.

"Better wake me in a couple of hours, Babs."

* * *

At 8:05, Dick Grayson dashed into GCPD headquarters, nearly colliding with the reception desk. 

"May I help you?" A bespectacled woman in her early twenties, red-brown hair tied back in two tufted pigtails smiled up at him.

Dick affected a relieved smile. "I sure hope so, ma'am," he said. "I think I might have just missed Commissioner Akins-"

"No such luck," a deep voice deadpanned behind him. Dick whirled about, hastily. "It's alright, Stacy," Akins continued. "I've been expecting Mr. Grayson." His grim stare was _almost_ bat-worthy. He pointed down the hallway. "You already know the way to my office, I believe."

Without waiting for an answer, he strode off in that direction. Dick smiled ruefully at Stacy. "Nice meeting you," he murmured, before following the commissioner of police.

* * *

This time, Akins didn't wait for Dick to be seated. "I _see_ what your word is worth," he snarled. "You knew damned well I didn't mean for you to go running around in a _different_ costume! _This_ time, your sanction won't protect you-" 

Dick held up a hand. "Whoa. Whoa, hold on a minute, Commissioner. Frankly," he fibbed, "I haven't got the foggiest idea what you're talking about. There's a new vigilante in Gotham?"

"Please," Akins said, "spare me. Where were you when I left that message?"

"Well," Dick said levelly, "considering that it _was_ after two in the morning, and you'd made it very clear that you didn't want my help, I was trying to take advantage of the situation and do something I don't get to do enough of. Namely sleep. Sorry, Commissioner, if there's someone else running around in a new costume, I've got nothing to do with it." It wasn't a lie. The bat-suit hardly qualified as a new costume, and Dick hadn't asked anyone else to assist.

Akins considered. "So, you weren't running around as Batman last night?"

"No, Sir." Dick said immediately. _Walking, driving, leaping, dodging, looming ominously… but no, I don't think I was doing much running._ "Although," he added, "going by the headlines in today's _Post_, I really hate to say 'I told you so', but it looks like whoever it is might be doing this city a favour."

The commissioner sat down, giving the younger man a hard look. "So, you're happy with the situation. Someone else wearing that suit."

"Well, it's not the first time," Dick caught himself an instant after the words left his mouth. He shouldn't have… wait, had he really given anything away? The 'multiple Batman' theory seemed to crop up every now and again, usually because somebody else _was_ running around in the cape and cowl. An off-the-cuff remark that supported the hypothesis wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

Akins absorbed that. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded. "Well, between you and me, I hope it's not the last."

Dick did a double take. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. By the way, I've let the guard detail at the hospital know, you can see him at ten."

"Ten." Dick pretended to think the matter over. "That's great, Sir. My morning is pretty open, so there's nothing to reschedule-"

Akins smiled, unpleasantly. "Oh, I didn't mean ten a.m., Mr. Grayson. I meant this evening. And I sincerely hope that Batman is also spotted around the time that you're visiting Wayne. Because otherwise, I may just have the grounds I need to bring you in on suspicion… and then we'll see if there are any further sightings of costumed vigilantes while we hold you both in custody.

* * *

"Thanks, I owe you." Dick hung up the phone, grinning. 

"Oh what a tangled web…" Barbara quoted, her smile matching his.

He laughed. "I know, I know… but it's just too perfect. It's going to kill him, you realize that, Babs."

"Just don't get too carried away, Former Boy Wonder. The more you embellish the scheme-"

"The greater the chance of the whole thing blowing up in your face. Got it."

Barbara sobered. "I think it's time," she said quietly. "The autopsy results should be filed. Want me to check?"

The smile vanished from Dick's face as though it had never been there. "Please. Though I don't know why we're bothering. Does it really matter whether cause of death was the fall or the debris?"

There was no response. Barbara was typing in the codes to allow her access to the information she sought. A moment later she looked up. "That can't be right," she muttered. "Let's try…" After a few point-and-clicks her expression grew even more perplexed. "Dick," she said curiously, "was Alfred… diabetic?"

"What? No. At least," Dick caught himself, "I don't think he was. You know he might not have mentioned it, if he were but… no, in all the years I lived at the manor, I'd think he might have let something slip if he were. Why?"

"Because," Barbara said, "the cause of death is listed here as 'insulin overdose'."


	5. The Momentum and the Moment

Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

Special Thanks to: Char, for beta-reading and free legal advice; Jacque, for the scans of TT annual #2, Cyber00 and Crimson7 for background for the press conference scene, Illman at fanficmed for Desoxyn info; Angelschilde, NightJim, Trauma, and Will44 for helpful suggestions.

**Locked Inside the Façade**

_Now there is no choice_

_I must put aside_

_The fears I feel inside…_

_There's no place to hide…_

_This is the moment!_

_This is the day_

_When I send all my doubts and demons_

_On their way!_

_Every endeavour_

_I have made--ever--_

_Is coming into play,_

_Is here and now--today!_

_This is the moment!_

_This is the time,_

_When the momentum and the moment_

_Are in rhyme!_

_Leslie Bricusse--Jekyll & Hyde

* * *

_

**Chapter 5: The Momentum and the Moment**

_9:15 a.m._

Dick leaned forward. "Are you sure?"

Barbara scanned the data on the screen before her. "Very low blood sugar level, abnormally high insulin level… and, here's the clincher: they found a syringe in his jacket pocket. The lab reports confirm it contained traces of insulin. What I can't figure out is, assuming Alfred wasn't diabetic… if you're going to kill somebody… why use insulin?

Dick considered that. "It works fast," he said thoughtfully. "If it was injected into a muscle, death occurs in about twenty to thirty minutes. IV would've been even faster. And the symptoms… Babs, hypothetically… you come onto the scene. You see someone who's broken out in a sweat. His face is flushed. He seems…" he paused, trying to remember the forensic texts Bruce had forced him to study, years ago, "disoriented, weak, sleepy… maybe he's already comatose. Babs, do you have any idea how many different drugs… or medical conditions for that matter, mimic those symptoms? Even if you suspect something's off with the blood sugar, what's the likelihood you'll realize you're looking at an insulin OD? Especially when you know the subject isn't diabetic, and had no reason to be taking the stuff."

Barbara nodded. "Makes sense. Also…insulin's legal. It's relatively easy to obtain. I mean, for all we know, one of Black Mask's enforcers might have a prescription for the stuff." Her eyes widened. "Dick? You do know what this means if the information's accurate, right?"

Dick nodded slowly. "It means that Alfred was already dying or dead when Bruce got there. It means he wasn't killed during the rescue attempt. It means Black Mask murdered him." He gripped the edge of the desk as he leaned over Barbara's shoulder to peer at the screen. She covered his hand with her own as she hit the page-down button. A little too quickly. Dick's eyes narrowed. "What didn't you want me to see?" He demanded.

"What?"

"Babs, don't play games with me. There's something in that report you're keeping from me. Isn't there?" He slid his hand free of hers and slapped it down on the table. "What are you hiding?"

She didn't answer. She held herself ramrod straight, jaw locked, eyes fixed straight ahead. She seemed to be on the verge of tears.

_Way to go, Grayson. _He thought, miserably, as his anger vanished. _You spent a few months in a cesspool and it looks like you still haven't washed all the stink away._ He shook his head. If nothing else, his time with the mob had proven to him that, although he had fallen from the ideals that Bruce had drummed into him from Day One, he still hadn't sunk as low as he had believed he had when Amy had kicked him out of holding. Even so, those days had left their mark on him. He was more volatile, now. More prone to anger. _Get it under control, or save it for the suit,_ he ordered himself.

"Sorry, Babs," he said, immediately contrite. "That was…" he broke off. "…Sorry."

Tight-lipped, Barbara scrolled back to the previous screen. "We know," she said in a brittle voice, "how Black Mask gets his jollies, but--" She broke off at Dick's gasp.

"There is no way," Dick whispered, "that Alfred got those kinds of injuries from the explosion or from the fall. Based on this…"

"I know," Barbara forced out the words. "Black Mask tortured him, starved him, and shot him full of insulin. Even if Batman had gotten there a few minutes earlier, I don't think it would have made a difference. By the time he could have figured out what was wrong with Alfred…"

"It would have been too late," Dick finished grimly. His expression hardened. "Bruce has got to be tearing himself apart over this… going over every move… thinking if he'd jumped a second sooner… snagged a different anchor point with the decel grapple… found another exit… and Alfred was already gone!" He slammed his fist into the table, sending the computer mouse, pad and all, sliding into Barbara's lap. "I hope I don't find him, right now. I hope to G-d I don't find Sionis when I'm like this. Because if I do… I honestly don't know if I'll be able to hold back."

Barbara gripped his wrist fiercely. "You're going to have to," she replied. "Because _I_ honestly don't know if I'm going to want to talk you down."

That checked him. He drew a deep breath. "Babs. I-I really am sorry I lost it, just now. There's absolutely no excuse…"

Barbara smiled shakily. "Look… you're stressed, you've been through a lot, lately…"

He shook his head. "It still doesn't justify…"

"No. It doesn't," Barbara admitted. "Pull something like this again and you can check into a hotel. But, for now… you'd better hustle. You're meeting with Lucius Fox in a little over a half-hour."

He nodded. That appointment had completely slipped his mind, when he'd gone to meet with Akins. Bruce's situation impacted more than the select group of people he thought of as family. Once the secret became public knowledge, Wayne Enterprises was likely to suffer from the fallout. So, rather than wait for the other shoe to drop, he was going to take steps, now, to contain the situation.

"We'll talk later, Babs," he said.

* * *

_10:10 a.m._

Lucius Fox paced back and forth before his office window. "What you're saying is--"

"Difficult to believe, I know, Mr. Fox," Dick said respectfully. "If you'd rather think that this is all some kind of a joke on my part, I understand. But, hypothetically speaking, if I'm telling you the truth… if Bruce Wayne really is Batman, and really is in police custody, right now… then once those facts come to light, how do we minimize the repercussions for WE?"

Lucius stopped pacing. He faced the window, gripping the sill tightly. "Well," he said slowly, "Bruce did give you power of attorney, so you _are_ able to act on his behalf. That makes it easier. And harder."

"I don't under--"

"Alright," Lucius said, a hint of steel creeping into his voice. "Here it is, cards on the table. I can hold a press conference. Assure investors that Wayne Enterprises is solvent and won't be impacted in any way, shape, or form, by the… current difficulties… its CEO is facing."

"But."

"But," Lucius continued nervously, "that might not be enough. You might need to liquidate your own… and Bruce's holdings in the company. That would allow us to distance the corporation more fully from the…"

"Scandal," Dick finished. "Cards on the table. Like you said." He swallowed. He and Babs had discussed this, already. Together, they had set up dummy corporations that would "purchase" the holdings. In reality, nothing would be lost. But on paper, it would look…"

"This couldn't come at a worse time," Lucius intoned. "What with the hostile takeover of Korrd Technologies a few months ago… now this… we're going to take a hit, no matter what. But if you're willing to sell off the Wayne holdings…" he broke off. "I hate having to ask you to do this. The company is Bruce's legacy."

Dick sighed. "Mr. Fox," he asked, "tell me truthfully. Could Bruce's arrest lead to Wayne Enterprises going bankrupt?"

"It's possible, of course," Lucius admitted, "though one or more hostile takeovers would be more likely."

"That would still trigger layoffs, though."

"Hundreds, if not thousands," Lucius agreed.

"And given WE's place in the economic infrastructure, there'd be a ripple effect on our suppliers and distributors."

"Almost definitely."

"Then…" he swallowed. His throat was suddenly dry. And the overpowering fragrance of cedar that permeated the vice president's office wasn't helping. "Then," Dick stated, "we'd better go ahead with it. If it's going to come down to a choice between holding on to a legacy or risking that many people losing their livelihoods, I know how Bruce would decide. Once Akins makes his announcement, get media relations to set up a press conference. This is probably going to be better coming from me."

"Ever given a press conference before?"

"Yes." As Robin. A long time ago.

Lucius considered. "Alright. We'll do it your way. Mind if I still want this to be a really bad practical joke?"

Dick sighed. "You and me, both, Mr. Fox."

* * *

_11:30 a.m._

"I hope you're alright," Barbara's 'Oracle voder' said over the intercom, "with setting this up in one of the satellite caves. With Dad staying under the same roof with me, I don't want the neighbours recognizing either of you, and wondering why you'd be coming to call."

The goateed young man lounging against the rough cement wall grinned impishly at her holographic image. "Fess up, Cyberbabe," he retorted, "you're just afraid of what might happen if you and me are sitting together in the same room."

"That must be it, Harper," she deadpanned. "If I were to break my escrima over your skull, I don't know how I'd ever be able to face Dinah again."

"Ahhhh… don't sweat it," the blonde woman seated on the leather hassock grinned.

"It's not like you'd damage anything vital,"

"Hey!" Roy shouted, as Barbara responded--

"Weren't you just paying attention? I'd have wrecked the escrima!"

The two women giggled. Dick hadn't known the synthetic voice could giggle. It sounded mildly disturbing. The mirth broke off abruptly, and the simulacrum dropped away. Barbara's green eyes were deadly serious.

"I've just gotten confirmation, Dick," Barbara said. "In two hours time, Akins will be making the announcement."

At her words, all traces of levity vanished from the three faces in the room. "It's really happening." Roy stated. "It just feels like…"

"A bad dream?" Dick asked. "Trust me, nobody wants to wake up more than I do. Meanwhile, if Akins is speaking in two hours, I'll be giving a speech of my own about an hour or so after that. Before the markets open tomorrow morning, I want the public to know that WE isn't ripe for a corporate takeover bid. Plus, it may cut into Akins' spotlight if the press is rushing across town to hear my side of it."

"And that's where you two come in," Barbara stated.

"Much as I'd like to read off a prepared statement and walk away," Dick continued, "we all know the reporters are going to have questions. I don't want to get caught off guard."

Dinah nodded. "And you wanted us here because--"

"Because if you're looking for people to shoot off their mouths and ask totally inappropriate questions," Barbara began…

"On a top ten list of qualified individuals, Roy and I are probably at least three of them."

Roy grinned, and rubbed his fingers together, gleefully. "Alright, Robbie. Lets take it from: you've just read the best speech the WE spin doctors could put together on such short notice. The reporters have been listening, but waiting for you to finish what you have to say, so they can ask…"

"Were you the original Robin?" Dinah called out.

"Ye-"

"Are you currently Nightwing?" Roy interrupted.

"No com--"

"Is Wayne really crazy?"

"No!"

"Is it true that Akins has banned you from appearing in costume?"

"No comment."

"How competent do you consider the GCPD?"

"Extremely."

"Then, why do you feel they need your help to get the job done?"

"Um…"

"Who's better in the sack, Batgirl or Starfire?"

"_Roy!_" Dick's squawk of protest was drowned out by Dinah's snort.

"Dick… he wasn't one of the options!"

Strange wheezing sounds were emanating from the monitor. The simulacrum was back up, and it sounded like it was hyperventilating.

"Oracle, you okay?" Dinah asked, sobering.

"Just peachy, thanks," came the synthetic response. "Keep going."

With an evil smirk, Roy shoved a crossbow quarrel into Dick's face as though it was a microphone. "How many of the Titans _have_ you slept with?"

"Quit it," Dick snarled.

"Have you seen your father?" Dinah broke in, ignoring the angry look Roy shot at her.

"Not yet."

"What was it like growing up at Wayne Manor?" Roy demanded.

Dinah sidled up until she stood a scant eight inches away. "Is it true that you were fired from the most corrupt police department on the Eastern Seaboard?"

"Well, technically, but…"

"Did Wayne have a lot of girlfriends over when you were a child?"

"What was your connection with the sultry, yet venomous Tarantula?"

Dick felt his face grow hot. "NO COMMENT!"

Roy continued as though the other two had not spoken. "…Or were the floozies just for show? What was your _real_ relationship with Way--"

Before Roy could complete the question, a fist slammed into his jaw, propelling him several feet backward. Dick's second punch connected with his nose. Roy staggered, struggling to maintain his balance. He lost that battle, but managed to recover enough to fall properly to the ground, letting go of the quarrel as he did. His lip was bleeding, he realized, as he felt something trickle down toward his chin.

Dick advanced. "I. Said," he growled menacingly, "Quit it!"

Roy rose shakily to his feet, shrugging off Dinah's attempt to help him. "Look, Batboy," he snarled, "if you can't take hearing it from me, how're you gonna take it from the press?" He gripped both of Dick's shoulders. "Listen. When you go out there, they will ask you everything and _anything_ they can. They will badger. They will hound. They will question you in ways that would impress any court lawyer. Except in court, _you_ or _your_ _lawyer_ gets to call 'Objection,' if the questioning gets out of line. Some of those reporters are probably going to try to get a rise out of you because they _hope_ you'll take a swing at them. But, Robbie, you do not let them provoke you. Whatever they say, no matter how stupid…"

"Dick," Barbara said quietly, "Roy has a point, this time. I know you're angry, but you have got to keep it in check. For Bruce's sake, as much as for yours."

Dick nodded slowly. "I can't help him from a holding cell."

"Not just that," Dinah replied. "What happens if they try to say that you wouldn't have assaulted the reporter if Bruce hadn't taught you to use violence to solve your problems?"

"But he didn't!" Dick protested automatically. "It was the exact opposite. He always used to say…"

_We're not brutalizers. We've got to think with our heads, not our fists._

"…Not our fists," Dick repeated. "Not our fists." He spun abruptly toward the far wall. "I… betrayed that before," he admitted softly. "I let something happen… something I shouldn't have… and I couldn't face telling Bruce."

Roy opened his mouth to say something. Dinah held her finger to her lips in a shushing motion.

"So, I ran away," Dick continued flatly. "I tried to do the right thing and turn myself in to police. My captain decided retroactively that I'd been undercover and working with BPD sanction. She turned me out and told me I'd do more good outside Lockhaven than inside it."

"Sentenced to community service," Roy drawled. "Just what normally happens to privileged rich celebs and their kids in a corrupt society."

Dick blinked. "I… didn't think of it that way," he replied. "I… don't think I was thinking at all. I hated myself. I hated what I'd done… what I'd become… that Amy wouldn't even let me do the 'right' thing." He considered. "Maybe I… does it make sense that I decided to do the 'wrongest' thing I could, instead?" Did it? He couldn't be sure. But it was as good a theory as any as to why he had sought out the 'Jersey mob.

With a quick glance at the monitor, Dinah walked up to Dick and placed her hand on his shoulder. "Helena mentioned you crashing her apartment, that time," she said. "She was worried about you."

"She was right to be," Dick admitted. "There were a couple of months when I kidded myself that things were looking up. I mean, if you ignore the fact that I was slowly gaining the acceptance of a low-level Mafia family, and putting my fighting talents to good use as a bodyguard."

"And?" Barbara asked hesitantly. Her voice was carefully neutral.

"And," Dick said quietly, "it wasn't me. If I was as…bad as I believed, I should've fit right in with the rest of the mob enforcers. But I didn't. I couldn't. I left them. Tried a worse lot to hook up with. I… made overtures to Slade. Convinced him I'd switched allegiances. Wasn't that hard." He laughed. "I'd managed to convince myself, after all. In some ways," he admitted, "I was so damn good at working for the other side, it was scary. But…it hit me suddenly… if I'd really fallen as fast and far as I believed, then whydid I hate every minute of what I was doing?"

Roy laid his hand on Dick's other shoulder. "Because, Batboy," he said, "you were always too smart to get taken in by an idea that stupid. Hell, you fought off Brother Blood's programming. Is it that crazy that you'd resist the insanity you were trying to brainwash yourself into believing?"

Dick gaped at him.

"Dick, you screwed up. Fine."

"I let Blockbuster die!"

"Yeah? Well maybe your captain can give you a medal of honour when this whole thing blows over. As I was saying, you messed up. That doesn't mean that you _are_ a mess-up." He squeezed briefly on Dick's shoulder. "You didn't give up on me when I was fighting not to go back on heroin. You didn't give up on Raven when Trigon was in her driver's seat. You are _not_ giving up on yourself. End of discussion."

Dick nodded slightly as he processed Roy's words. "Thanks, Bowhead," he said. "Babs? You heard all that?"

"Months ago," Barbara's voice replied. "I started checking things out right about the time Desmond's pet spider tried to kill me."

"Not just you, Babs. Rollie was after everyone and anyone else I'd ever had any sort of contact with," Dick remembered. "He told me that for the rest of my life, I'd never even be able to shake hands with a person without targeting them."

"Ah," Barbara breathed. "That's about the one piece of the puzzle I _didn't_ have."

Dick blinked. He turned around slowly to face her. "And… if you know," he said disbelievingly, "you still want… I mean…" He stretched his hand out toward the screen.

The simulacrum was down again. Barbara's hand reached back to him. "Remember what I said to you when you were going through the same sort of guilt trip after you choked Joker?"

Dick swallowed. "That the world would be a better place without Joker in it." He knew what she was getting at, but…

"Ditto for Blockbuster."

"Babs, we don't get to pick and choose who deserves to live or die!"

"No. We don't. That was one of the first things I learned from Bruce. Probably one of the first things you learned from him, too. But get this: I own a rifle. Never fired it outside a target range, but during No Man's Land, I came close. Black Mask's gang was storming the 'Tower. I didn't exactly want to broadcast the fact that I still had enough technology to hold them off. The gun was in my hands. I had one of them in my sights. And I was about a second away from pulling that trigger."

Dick gaped at her. "What stopped you?"

Barbara grimaced. "In the middle of the fight, Helena turned up in a Bat-suit. And Bruce didn't.

"Now," she continued, "I'm about to give you a hypothetical. I want you to tell me what you would do… as a police officer. Hostage situation. You know that the hostage-taker is threatening to execute a captive every hour. You know he's willing and able to carry out his threat. You also have the means of bringing him down and ending the danger… but it involves lethal force. Your choice. Take him down, or watch him take down all the innocents. What's your call?"

"That's different! I wasn't a cop at the time. And there's always another way!"

"What if there wasn't?"

"Babs…"

"What if _I'm_ one of the hostages? Because, Dick, if what you're telling me is the truth, then, for all intents and purposes, _I was!_ What's your call? One or more deaths are about to occur due to your action or inaction. You get to pick the target. Is it the guy who's threatening the hostages? Or is it one hostage every hour?"

"You can't ask--"

"Yes, I can! Do you shoot, or do you watch?"

"Babs!"

"Shoot. Or. WATCH?"

Time seemed to stand still. "…Shoot," Dick said finally. "Shoot. Or allow your partner to, if you can't. But shoot."

He sank to the ground, feeling drained, and yet, oddly calm. For a few moments, nobody said a word. Then Dinah sighed.

"I hate to get back to business," she said, "but I think we need to see if you can get through the questions, this time, without punching Roy, Dick."

Dick nodded and rose, shakily to his feet.

"If you're up to it, Former Boy Wonder."

Roy punched his bicep lightly. "Sure he is," he said glibly. "Right, Robbo?"

Dick forced a smile. But it was less forced than it might have been a few minutes ago. "Yeah," he responded. "What he said."

* * *

_2:00 p.m._

He hated this. He hated the sedatives the doctors had prescribed to keep the nightmares at bay. He hated that the dosage was high enough to impede his concentration, but low enough to keep him aware of his current predicament. At first, he hadn't cared. He had slept when he could and meditated when he couldn't. Unfortunately, after the first two days, his techniques were beginning to lose their effectiveness. And, after Gordon's visit, he had been unable to block the memories anymore. Alfred was dead. Dead, because _he_ hadn't held on tightly enough. He should have been prepared for Jason…for anyone rushing him from behind. He could have sidestepped. He could have gotten a better grip on Alfred from the beginning.

Although, even now, he still felt some guilt for his parents' murders, on an intellectual level he realized that there was nothing he could have done to prevent their deaths. And, since there was nothing that he could do to allow himself to accept that fact, he had, at least, brought himself to accept that he could not banish his misplaced sense of guilt. But Alfred's death… that was different. That _was_ his fault. He shouldn't have let go.

His hand reached for the bed control pad. Carefully he pressed the button to elevate the mattress so that he could sit up enough to eat. Two of the officers in the room spun about at the faint humming sound. Once they recognized its source, they turned back to their respective air vents. It was almost laughable. There were nine other people in the room with him, whose sole task was to prevent his escape. Even if he had managed to secrete a lock pick somewhere on his person--and he suspected that assessing his injuries had been only one of the reasons for the extensive series of x-rays the doctors had ordered--he wasn't about to go anywhere with a broken leg. At this stage, jarring the limb could shatter the bone. Even had he wanted to, flight was not an option for him. Not now. But still, there were nine officers in the room, dedicated to keeping him in custody. Nine officers on guard duty, that, by-and-large, ignored him.

He'd staked out enough museum exhibits to know that, in general, security guards focused on possible entry and escape routes that a potential burglar might use to gain access to the artifact. They might, occasionally, glance back at the item on display, to ensure that it was still there, but their main focus was invariably the doors, windows, skylights, and air vents. They did not gawk at their charge. They did not draw any closer to it than they needed to, to verify its continued presence. For the most part, they left it alone.

…Like they were leaving him alone. And, he was coming to realize that being alone in a crowd was worse than being alone by himself. There were some times that he wanted to scream. But, that would only bring another round of sedatives, and more self-loathing.

Jim had said that he was going to try to visit again. Bruce hoped that Montoya would be coming today. It was easier for him to relax when she came, though he wasn't sure why. Maybe, it was because she didn't treat him as though he might turn berserk at any given moment. Maybe, it was because, when she spoke to him, although she never tried to force a response on his part, she would pause, now and again, just long enough to give him an opportunity to comment, if he wanted to. Bruce considered. Maybe today, he would. He had no romantic feelings for her, and he was well aware that she offered him nothing more than simple friendship. But she offered that as if unaware of the magnitude of such a gift.

He heard the door open, and light footfalls clicking on the linoleum floor. Not Montoya's, however. He turned his head toward the door. The woman entering was a few pounds heavier, and her stride was shorter. She looked familiar…oh, yes. She had tried to shoot him some months earlier. He had disarmed her and broken her nose in the process.

Unsurprisingly, she had chosen to hold a grudge over the incident.

Romy Chandler sat down at his bedside. "So." she said, "here you are."

Bruce wasn't going to dignify that. She shrugged, and then smiled thinly.

"What did you do it for? Kicks? Fast cars and extreme sports didn't do enough for you?"

Bruce blinked at her. Did she really believe that? Over a decade, he had spent honing body and mind to perfection… and she thought he had done so… on a whim? He glanced around the room. His guard detail was studiously ignoring them. Naturally. He didn't want to speak. Especially not to this hostile young woman… but the idea that she might truly believe his reasons for putting on the suit had been that… irresponsible… irked him. It shouldn't. But it did. And suddenly, he realized that he wanted to… if not justify… at least… explain. Or, maybe he was just tired of the 'silent treatment.' "My parents were killed by a mugger," he said finally. "I didn't want any other child to face that."

He saw Chandler absorb that information. He saw her file it away mentally. Her eyes, however, did not lose their resemblance to granite chips.

"I'm sorry," she said coldly. "My partner didn't have kids. I guess that's why you let him die and saved Angie Molina."

His mind reeled. _Molina?_ The name was familiar. Of course it was familiar. She was a household name, a local newscaster… kidnapped by Joker, two Christmases ago… he fought the sedatives, trying to remember…

_The timer on the bomb was at 48 seconds and falling when he arrived on the scene. The store had been evacuated. The only people remaining were one terrified media personality-cum-kidnap victim, and one determined cop. It took Batman three precious seconds to assess the situation. He could disarm an ordinary bomb in less than thirty…but this was one of Joker's. Who knew what measures he had taken to prevent deactivation? _

_Molina was talking to the officer. "Please," she was pleading, "don't let me die. I've got children." _

_The officer was examining the chain wrapped around the woman's body, that suspended her, headfirst from a ceiling rafter. The other end of the chain was secured to the bomb. "Easy, Lady," he was saying. "I'm doing the best I can." _

_Batman leaped down from the upper window, ignoring Molina's exclamation of terror mingled with hope. He moved immediately toward the bomb. 32 seconds. He looked at the cop. "Get out," he ordered._

_The officer shook his head. "Can you disarm the bomb?"_

"_No time to try." From his utility belt, he extracted a small tool, similar in appearance to a wire cutter, but designed to tackle tougher jobs. _

"_I'll use that. You catch her," the cop ordered._

_He was about to refuse, when he realized that the officer had noted something he, Batman, had missed. Molina had about thirty pounds of iron chain wrapped about her. With the extra weight, if the bomb couldn't be disarmed in time, Batman stood a far better chance of catching the woman, once the chain yielded. There wouldn't be enough time to free her before carrying her to safety, so whoever got her out of the blast radius would have to be strong enough to run with her, chain and all. And, physically, the officer wasn't up to it. Damn. With 22 seconds to go, he handed the cutter to the officer, and moved over to Molina._

_At eleven seconds, the chain gave. "Get clear," he ordered the cop, as he hoisted Molina over one shoulder and ran. _

_And the bomb had gone off when the counter fell to nine seconds. Chalk another one up to Joker's unpredictable sick humour._

_He'd been more than five feet away from the bomb when the cop cut the chain. He'd covered more than three times that ground in the remaining two seconds. The officer, however, had been standing less than two feet away from the bomb. And, when it exploded, he was still too close to the epicentre of the blast. The shockwave hurled him against the wall as though he were a rag doll. The wall collapsed. Timbers fell, and plaster and smoke filled the air._

_No. Batman stood still, for one moment. Molina, still shaking in his arms, began to cry softly. He was about to put her down and go back to render emergency first aid when he heard a woman's voice. "Oh my G-d…Nate! Nate!"_

_Another voice, a man's, was calling for a medic._

_The woman looked up, suddenly, and met Batman's eyes. He felt that he should say something. That 'Nate' had been offered the chance to leave and hadn't taken it… but that would have sounded like he was making excuses. That Nate had been a hero. But… that much was obvious. That he had tried to save him. What was the point? He hadn't succeeded, had he?_

_In the end, he had said nothing, just carried Molina outside to the waiting ambulance._

Now, that same woman was sitting by his bedside, accusing him. This time, he could at least try. Explanations were excuses, and excuses were insulting… but maybe, there was something he could say. He forced himself to meet her gaze, as she had met his that night. "I'm… sorry," he whispered. "It shouldn't…have happened."

Chandler leaned forward in angry disbelief. "You're sorry? You think that changes anything?"

He shook his head, miserably. "What…" he struggled to frame the words "would?"

It was on the tip of Romy's tongue to say 'nothing'. It was true. But, staring at him now, weakened, defeated, injured, she couldn't. The hatred that she had borne him since that day was still present… but it mingled with the realization that, had she been in Batman's boots that night, she would have made the same call he had: save the civilian and hope the officer makes it out. And in this case, Nate hadn't. Batman wasn't responsible for Nate Patton's death. She wanted him to be. G-d! How she wanted him to be. But he wasn't.

"Damn you." She hissed. "Damn you to Hell, Batman." She left the room as briskly as she could without actually running.

Bruce watched her go. _If there IS a Hell_, he thought to himself, _she's probably right_.He shut his eyes wearily, and realized, to his consternation, that he was hoping that the nurse would be by soon with his sedative.

* * *

_2:07 p.m._

Romy stalked down the hospital corridors, paying no attention to her route. She might have done a full circuit of the floor a dozen times and been none the wiser. Finally, she calmed down enough to take in her surroundings. The metal plates affixed to the walls, next to the doorways bore room numbers prefaced by the letter "G". Wayne was in room C-812. How far away was that? This wing appeared to be mainly doctor's offices. Slowly, she advanced, keeping an eye out for signs to direct her back toward "C-wing."

As she turned a corner, she discovered a small solarium. It was empty, but the furnishings looked comfortable. She was about to pass by, when she noted a coffee machine tucked away in a small kitchenette off of the larger room. Maybe that would help, she thought, going in.

A few moments later, she was raising a steaming styrofoam cup to her lips. Her hands, she realized with annoyance, were shaking.

"Ma'am? I don't mean to intrude," said a warm baritone, "but are you alright?"

Romy looked up. The man, who stood in the doorway with a concerned expression on his face, appeared to be in his middle thirties, with carefully cropped reddish hair. The white coat, caduceus pin, and stethoscope marked him for a doctor. She opened her mouth to tell him that she was fine, she only wanted some privacy, then changed her mind.

"I will be," she said, gulping the coffee. She tried not to wince as the hot liquid scalded her tongue.

The man sat down across from her. "Elliot Hardy," he introduced himself.

"Romy Chandler."

"Well, Ms. Chandler," he began, "I suppose you already know that too much caffeine is only going to make you more keyed up."

Romy took another sip. "It's Detective Chandler, actually," she corrected without malice. "And right now, I need to be keyed up. I..." she hesitated. Why in the world was she spilling her life-story to a total stranger? But… wasn't that better? She'd probably never see him again. She didn't have to worry about what he would think of her. And she needed to vent.

She started telling him about what she had gone through when Nate had died. Ironic, really. She'd barely tolerated the man's attitude while he was alive. Dead, she'd created a saint of him. Romy had had nightmares about the explosion for months afterwards, nightmares that had intensified once Nate's parents took him off life-support. Less than a month later, the mob war had erupted. And, in the space of three days, scores of officers had been wounded--twenty-eight fatally. One of them had been her mentor at the academy. This time, her shift commander had insisted she get counselling. This time, she was taking sedatives to help her sleep. But, in order to function and remain alert during her shift, she was 'counter-medicating' with frequent coffee injections. She had become more impulsive, quicker to anger. It was starting to affect her job performance. She suspected that her new partner, Takahata, was covering for her… but she wondered for how long.

"A few nights ago," she continued, "we busted a major drug ring. And when we were itemizing the evidence, I… I was toying with the idea of holding on to a couple of the bottles. I mean… people who know me know that a year ago, I would _never_ have contemplated something like that. But, it wasn't a fleeting thought. I was actually planning it. What happens if next time…"

Hardy nodded sympathetically. "Are you still seeing that counsellor?"

"Yeah," Chandler sighed. "I have another three sessions covered under my health plan." She smiled ruefully. "Guess I should ask about tapering off the sedatives, or something, hunh?"

The handsome doctor (damn, if she weren't already seeing Marcus, what a catch this guy would make!) grinned back. "If you're taking meds to sleep well so you can perform, and the substance you're taking harms your performance, somebody needs to re-evaluate." His expression turned serious. "As far as… um… liberating evidence goes, ethics aside, if you don't know what you're doing, you really don't want to go that route. A lot of what's sold on the streets might be perfectly legal with a prescription, but if you don't know the dosage…" he thought for a moment. "Let me give you a hypothetical. A normal dose of… let's use Desoxyn as an example; a normal dose of Desoxyn would be about twenty…maybe twenty-five milligrams. It varies according to the usual factors: weight, age, sensitivities… but that's probably average. It's a stimulant, so a normal course of treatment could leave you right back at square one as far as the insomnia is concerned. However, if the dosage is too high, it can also cause paranoia, hallucinations, panic states, assaultiveness… it's not a good area for experimentation. That's not to say it can't help you, but it's really something you need to discuss with someone who has your medical history in front of them."

He smiled self-consciously at her glazed-eye stare. "I didn't mean to lecture you, Detective Chandler. Fact is, I happened to be a presenter recently at a symposium on the long-term effects of methamphetamines and dexmethylphenidates on… um… psychiatric outpatients, so you kind of hit my area of expertise." At her raised eyebrow, he hastily added: "not that I'm lumping you in that category, of course!"

Romy laughed. "Of course." She narrowed her eyes. "Dexametha-whats?"

"Stimulants."

* * *

_2:10 p.m._

A few minutes after Romy left his room, an orderly entered, carrying in his hands a number of wide leather straps. "Your lawyer's on her way in," he said, as he affixed the restraints to Bruce's chest and waist, pinning his arms beneath the heavy bands. The orderly fastened shorter straps about his wrists, securing them to the bed-rails.

"Are you… that afraid I'll run off?" Bruce asked without humour.

The orderly had the grace to look embarrassed as the guard detail filed out. "Orders, Sir," he remarked. "If you're alone in here, I have to get these on you. I'm sorry." Then he was gone.

Five minutes later, Rae Green came in. She took one look at Bruce and started to swear. "This is outrageous!" she snapped. "For pity's sake, you're in traction. What in the world are they thinking?"

Bruce tried to frame a response. "Don't… know."

She took a deep breath to calm down. "How are you doing?"

He tried to shrug, but the restraints made it difficult.

"Do you feel up to discussing your situation, today?"

Silence

Rae sighed. "They've scheduled a competency hearing for you in two days time," she said. "If you're going to be like this, I'm going to push for postponement." She waited for him to meet her eyes. "Mr. Wayne, I'm going to need you to pay attention. Are you listening?"

He blinked, slowly. "Yes."

"Alright. Getting a postponement is easy enough. I can request one on the grounds that there hasn't been enough time for an evaluation, that you've just suffered a major shock, and it would be unfair to assess you in your current condition, I can do that, and the judge will go along with it. The problem is, once you're able to be moved," she paused, making sure that he was still paying attention, "you'll be transferred to Arkham Asylum until the hearing reconvenes."

His expression didn't waver, but his fingers bent and flexed, giving voice to the apprehension he would not articulate.

"If I don't ask for postponement, and the hearing goes through as scheduled, you could be remanded there indefinitely." She waited. "Mr. Wayne? Do you understand the choice and the consequences?"

He nodded slowly.

"How do you want to play this?"

He wanted to go home and lick his wounds while Alfred tried to convince him to eat a full meal and get some bed rest. But, by now, investigative teams were probably combing the manor for anything that would link him further with Batman. And Alfred… he closed his eyes. Alfred would never try to convince him of anything again.

His left hand formed a fist, and punched the mattress ineffectively.

"Do… what you think… is… best, Rae," he said finally. "I don't care."

* * *

_4:00 p.m._

The prepared statement was supposed be the easy part. He had scant emotional investment in the company, and it wasn't as if he or Bruce were truly going to lose their holdings in WE…or as if Bruce's purse would feel the pinch, even if they did. So Dick kept telling himself, repeatedly. But, standing in the foyer of Wayne Enterprises, paper in hand, and five minutes to show-time, his heart was thudding in his chest, and his palms were sweating.

Lucius was at the security desk phone, responding to a page.

Dick glanced briefly out the window. About twenty men and women, armed with microphones, cameras, and camcorders were clustered at the base of the stairs. Further off, he could see a straggler or two walking up hurriedly. He looked behind him, at the elevator on the far left--the one Lucius had set on service mode. It would remain on the ground floor until he, or Lucius, swiped their electronic key-cards against the scanner. When the conference was over, Dick would not have to wade through the crowd to exit the conference. He would go up to the executive floor, wait a half-hour or so, and leave through a side door. Barbara would drive by to pick him up, as Dick didn't want to take a chance that a reporter might have come ahead of time, to catch him pulling up to the building, and to accost him on his way out.

Lucius put down the telephone. "It's just been confirmed. The local stations are going to be showing this live." Seeing Dick's eyes widen, he continued. "I can still do this, if you've changed your mind."

Dick shook his head. "They're expecting me."

"A few years back," Lucius recalled, "I went to Brazil to visit one of our subsidiaries. I took a boat trip down the Amazon. The captain informed me that the river was home to schools of piranha. To demonstrate, one of the sailors dumped a pail of table scraps over the side."

Dick let out a low whistle. "That would have set off a…"

"Feeding frenzy," Lucius nodded sagely. "Like you're about to. Are you sure you're up to this?"

"Even if I'm not, Lucius," Dick replied, "'capes' like me are supposed to jump overboard and fight the piranhas so the rest of the passengers and crew can get to safety."

Lucius looked sceptical.

"Really." Dick deadpanned. "It's in the official JLA handbook… somewhere." He blinked. Somewhere in the middle of that conversation, his pulse had steadied. A strange calm settled on him. No… it wasn't strange… it was the same feeling he'd had as a child, right before the trapeze act started. It was a shifting of focus, from fear to excitement. From the dread of falling to the anticipation of flight. And, suddenly, Dick knew. He knew that he could do this.

Lucius nodded to the security guard at the door. He said, "let them in, Nacio," but Dick heard, "Laydeeeees ahhnnnd gent-telMEN! If I may direct your attention to the centre ring…" Dick drew a deep breath, and advanced to the near-centre of the foyer, the tips of his shoes just brushing the top of the black W-E inset in the green marble floor. He exhaled, drew another breath, and began to speak.

The questions, when he finished the prepared statement, came thick and fast. Most, Roy and Dinah had anticipated. Yes, he did think that the GCPD employed some of the finest men and women in the country.

"Then, why are costumed vigilantes necessary?"

"You know, right up to the point when the Titanic struck the iceberg, every lifeboat on board the vessel was a useless waste of space. After it hit, suddenly there weren't enough of them. In a lot of cases, the GCPD can, and does, manage just fine without us. But, in case of iceberg… they have a few extra boats at the ready."

The questions shifted, as anticipated, to the 'Robin' years.

"Mr. Grayson! Wayne stuck you in a costume at the age of eight and expected you to leap rooftops, dodge bullets, and face extreme danger. Wouldn't you consider that to be abusive?"

Dick affected a shrug. "I was a circus performer from the time I was five. Facing danger in a costume wasn't something Bruce introduced me to. He just gave me a better reason."

"But the stunts you performed as Robin could have gotten you killed."

"Same thing would've happened if I'd missed the trapeze bar, or overbalanced on the tightrope. Danger is danger, and I'd been facing danger for nearly half my life before Robin ever put in an appearance. What Bruce gave me was _purpose_. As a circus performer, I pulled off a lot of dangerous stunts primarily to wow the crowds. As Robin, and later, as Nightwing, I used, and continue to use those same stunts to save lives. I'd consider that an improvement."

"There's been a lot of speculation about a billionaire like Wayne taking in a young boy, practically off the streets. There've been rumours of improper conduct. Care to comment?"

"Apart from categorically denying any and all such insinuations? And going on record as stating that nothing 'illicit' or 'improper' _ever_ occurred between us? No." A twinge of anger that Dick was unable to suppress crept into his voice, but thanks to Roy's drilling, he was able to maintain his composure.

They asked him about his disappearance from the Gotham social scene, his life with the Titans, whether he was seeing anybody…

Dick laughed at that one. "No comment."

"Mr. Grayson, with Bruce Wayne currently in police custody, your own life has been pretty much torn apart. This press conference only came about as a result of Wayne's arrest. Given the changes that are sure to take place for you, going forward, do you plan to come out with a show of support for your former legal guardian?"

WGKN newscaster Deirdre Campbell suddenly found herself looking into a pair of intense blue eyes. "Actually, he's legally my father, now. Has been for a couple of years."

"Mr. Grayson, do you intend to come out with a show of support for your father?"

Dick decided, right then and there, that he had had enough questions for one day. He frowned. "I think I just answered that question Ms. Campbell. Along with all the others I'm prepared to respond to today." He raised his voice. "I appreciate your willingness to come out here today and, via this conference, to allow Wayne Enterprises to reassure its customers, in the most public way possible, of its continuing presence in Gotham and around the world. Thank you all for your time, and good day."

He walked over to the elevator. Behind him, he could hear the reporters clamouring for one last question, one more comment… but less strenuously than they might have done.

Lucius followed. As the doors closed behind them, Lucius extended his hand. Uncertainly, Dick took it.

"That went better than I'd hoped for," the older man breathed. "Well done."

* * *

_4:20 p.m._

He registered the door to his room opening. One of the officers turned to look at the nurse standing at the entrance.

"Yeah?"

"Turn on the TV. His kid's on the news."

What? Dick… on television? How? Why? Bruce groaned inwardly. They must have arrested him, too. Of course, once word of Batman's arrest got out, Dick _would_ come back to Gotham. Come back to try to help _him_, Bruce realized with a pang. He didn't want to watch… this, he realized as one of the officers picked up the remote from his night table and aimed it at the set.

"…Facing danger in a costume wasn't something Bruce introduced me to. He just gave me a better reason." Dick's voice came through loud and clear, as the picture came into focus.

Bruce leaned forward, incredulous. The young man on the screen wasn't the angry, confused individual who had run out of the Bat-cave, days after the mob war had ended. He wasn't even the wisecracking youth that Bruce had last seen months earlier, when Red Hood had returned to Gotham… a youth trying too hard to conceal his doubts beneath a cloak of quips and wisecracks. The cover had been good… extremely good… but every now and then, he'd dropped shields just long enough for Batman to register the self-doubt lurking below the surface.

Staring out at him from the screen was a Dick Grayson who looked like he had… gone through hell and swiped Satan's pitchfork as a souvenir. Whatever had been missing in him before… confidence, a sense of mission, or some other indescribable… something… it was back, and back in spades.

"…What Bruce gave me was _purpose_." Dick was saying. "As a circus performer, I pulled off a lot of dangerous stunts…"

Bruce listened to the rest of the press conference in amazed disbelief. And as he did, he felt something within him that had almost died spark to life.

* * *

_5:15 p.m._

As the door of Barbara's van slid shut behind him, the other passengers began clapping and cheering.

"I knew you could do it!" Dinah squealed, wrapping an arm around his shoulder.

"Never doubted it for a second, Robbie," Roy echoed. "You had 'em eating out of your hand!"

"Yeah, thanks to you two," Dick replied.

"Yeah, I wondered if maybe we were a little tough on you… but then I remembered about the time you shoved a gun in my face to force me to get past that night I got shot."

"Oh, you mean you bought that explanation?" Dick asked innocently, earning himself a cuff on the head from Roy.

"Good one, Bro," Tim said quietly.

Barbara took her eyes off the road for one instant to smile back at him. "We'll celebrate later, Hunk-wonder. Just the two of us. For now…"

"For now, Cass is back in the 'Haven. Tim, Roy… you know what you're doing tonight."

Both nodded. "Prove the multiple Batman theory and keep you safe from the evil sheriff of Gotham-town a little longer, Robbie-_Hood_."

"Cute, Roy. Just don't do anything fancy, and don't get yourself shot."

Barbara spoke up. "Dinah's going to head down to the morgue. I think someone should speak to the ME… make sure he didn't mess up somehow."

"Who ordered the autopsy, anyway?" Tim asked suddenly.

Barbara thought for a moment. "Stearns," she remembered. "It was a 'T. Stearns." She frowned. "That's weird. I don't think I've heard of him before… but it seems like there's… something I should recognize about that name.

"Roy, Tim, can you make it the rest of the way to the 'cave from here?"

Both young men nodded. "Good. The van's a little conspicuous." She pulled over to let them out.

"Thanks, Babs. Catch you later."

"Not if Akins catches you first, Tim. Be careful."

The teen nodded, and slid the door shut.

Dinah faked a yawn. "Hooboy," she said loudly. "It's been a long day. Hate to leave you two all by yourselves, but would you mind dropping me at home?"

Barbara smiled gratefully. "Sure thing."

* * *

_5:25 p.m._

Tim and Roy made their way on foot toward the maintenance hole that masked the entrance to the cave. All at once Roy caught the younger man's arm and steered him toward a small restaurant.

"Er… Roy?"

"Relax, kid. We're hooking up with a few more people tonight. I just wanted to introduce you."

_What?

* * *

_

_9:58 p.m._

Dick entered Bruce's room with some trepidation. He knew how his mentor felt about anyone seeing him in a weakened state. The guards at the door moved aside to let him pass. Bruce was sitting up. He turned at the sound of Dick's footsteps.

"You came," Bruce said.

"Sorry it took so long," Dick said as he sat down, "I had to convince Akins I wasn't going to bake you a cake with a file in it."

Bruce didn't doubt it. "I… saw you today. On TV."

Dick suddenly looked apprehensive. "Oh?"

"It was…" he hesitated, trying to find the words to convey what he wanted to without sounding… feeble. Or at least more feeble than he actually felt. "It was… good to hear what you said."

Dick grinned. "Oh. Well, good then. They're treating you alright?"

Bruce shrugged. His expression turned serious. "Thanks," he said. "For coming back."

He reached out and squeezed Bruce's shoulder. "You know I'm here when you need me, Big Guy," he said quietly.

Whether he deserved it or not. "You know… about…" His breath caught in his throat. "…Alfred."

"That's why I came back," Dick said gently, easily.

Bruce seized hold of Dick's wrist, gripping it with both hands. "I dropped him, Dick," he said fiercely. "I had him… in my hands… and I dropped him. Not far, but he was… you know he was… no longer… young. Any fall wasn't good for him. And… his last moments… it could have been the fright that killed him…"

Dick shook his head. "No, Bruce. It wasn't."

"It could well have been!"

Dick placed his free hand on Bruce's other shoulder. "No, Bruce. It wasn't. If he wasn't already dead, he was in the final stages of an insulin-induced coma."

Bruce gaped at him.

Dick continued inexorably. "I read the autopsy report. I saw the file. Somebody put 100 units of insulin into his left bicep about a half hour before the building went up." Dick nodded as he saw Bruce's expression harden. "I'm still trying to get my head around the fact that he's gone," Dick said, feeling hot tears well in his eyes, "but Bruce, you did _not_ do anything to cause his death. Not a thing. I'm not making this up to make you feel better. It's the truth. Believe it. _You_ didn't kill him."

It took a moment for the words to sink in. Then Bruce released Dick's wrist. He placed both hands on Dick's shoulders. "Find Black Mask," he whispered, as a nurse came in with two paper cups. One for pills and one for water.

"Visiting hours are over, now," the nurse said cheerily. "Mr. Wayne, we'll be turning down the lights for you in just a moment."

Bruce tightened his hold. "_Find him!_" He said with a dreadful intensity.

Dick glanced about. Suddenly, the police officers seemed a lot more attentive. "It's okay," he said. "Just give me another minute." He placed both his own hands on Bruce's shoulders. "I will," he said grimly to Bruce. "Bet on it."

* * *

_Tricorner, 10:01 P.M._

The shadowy figure cupped a hand over the beam of his flashlight, trying to conceal its beam from any passers-by. His partner continued to examine the wiring of the burglar alarm. "C'mon, c'mon!" the former urged.

"I'm hurrying as fast as I can… you think I want to set this thing off?"

"Better not do that," intoned a voice from the shadows. "Some people might be trying to sleep."

Both men spun about. A chop to the throat left the first gasping for air, as a kick to the solar plexus did the same for the second. Before either knew what was happening, their hands were bound by plastic cuffs to the barred grating that they had been attempting to unlock. The cowled figure surveyed his handiwork, then thoughtfully pinned a note to the second would-be burglar's jacket. Then he was gone. The first man read aloud: "To Akins from 'B'? Ya know, Edge, I always figured Batman was taller…"

_Diamond District, 10:01 P.M._

At the Gotham Diamond Exchange, Rothstein was working late. By the time the buyer was ready to leave his office, the street was all but deserted. _It's only a half-block to the parking lot_, he thought to himself, as he tightened his grip on the attaché case. Of course, that was plenty of time for a mugging to take place. A quarter-block later, he heard feet running behind him. _Probably has nothing to do with you_, he reassured himself, just as somebody shoved him hard from behind, sending him sprawling forward. Rothstein kept his grip on the case, until his assailant stomped on his hand. Rothstein cried out in pain… and so did the thug… as a cowled figure in black seized hold of the aggressor and slammed him into a brick wall.

"Not in _this_ city, Punk!" Batman snarled, as he delivered a punch. After subduing his quarry, the vigilante looked back at Rothstein, who was finding his feet.

"You're alright?"

Rothstein nodded.

"Next time you're working late, try to get a lift home. Or take a cab."

Then he fired off a grapnel and swung off.

A moment later a squad car appeared. One of the officers went to examine the captive. The other turned to Rothstein. "What happened?"

Rothstein swallowed. "That guy tried to run off with my briefcase. Batman stopped him. I… funny, but he seemed a little… younger than I would have pictured…"

_City Hall District, 10:01 p.m._

Edward Nigma chortled as he removed an opal choker from a department store window. "My first is in open but never in shut, my second in purebred but never in mutt. My third is in safeguard but never in keep, my last is in…"

"_Who gives a flying bleep?" _A female voice shouted as Batman leaped onto the scene and delivered a roundhouse punch to Nigma's jaw. It took a moment… and a good look at the costume… for the Riddler to realize that the voice had come _from_ the bat-suit.

"B-Bat_woman_?" Nigma stuttered, as he spat out a tooth. She certainly had the muscles for it. And the height.

"Shut the bleep up, skel!" The masked figure replied, delivering a jab to his liver, followed by a hook to the side of his head.

Riddler sank, groaning to his knees. Batman was about to leave the scene when a second voice called "Hey! You can't just leave him like that!"

Huntress dropped down lightly. She extended a length of nylon cord to the cowled fighter. "They're letting anyone in the Bat-Family these days, Grace?"

Grace Choi accepted the offering with a broad smile. "Arsenal asked me. Said it was a favor for Nightwing." She tied Nigma's wrists expertly behind his back. "How'd I do?" She asked.

Helena Bertinelli shrugged. "I've seen worse. How are the rest of the Outsiders holding up?"

"Meet me for a brew in an hour. We can catch up then."

_Old Gotham, 10:27 p.m._

"No! Keep away! I-I've got pepper spray!"

One of the four gang-members surrounding the young woman sneered. He reached out and snatched her purse away in a single motion. "Not anymore you don't, Mama," he said quietly.

Celia Rogel was never sure what happened next. One moment she thought that she was a dead woman…or worse… The next, her would-be assailants lay bound and bleeding around her. A whisper of a cape, the bottom of a boot, as its wearer swung to a nearby rooftop, and she was the only mobile person in the alley. She took a moment to realize the close call that she'd just had, leaped up, and ran back out to the street, where lights, cars, and people were in evidence.

_Fashion District, 10:45 p.m._

Romy Chandler's night was going from bad to worse. She listened as her partner, Takahata, interviewed one of three eyewitnesses claiming to have seen Batman earlier that night.

"And he just came down from the sky like some sorta big… bird!"

"A bird."

"Or… no… no, ya know, it was more like a bat!"

"Hence the name 'Batman'."

"Um… yeah!"

Chandler sighed. "Anything else?" She would have loved to know how the video feeds had picked up everything in their range _except_ the Batman. Anyone examining the footage would have sworn that the two thugs currently sitting, handcuffed, in the squad car had been taken down by the Invisible Man.

The youth, who couldn't be more than sixteen, frowned, then brightened. "Yeah! The brutha throws punches like nobody's business!"

Takahata paused. "Brother? As in…" He and Romy exchanged a stunned look.

_Moll Flanders Irish Restaurant and Pub, 11:50 p.m._

Roy Harper surveyed the people around the table. They had all changed back to street clothes, by now. Tim Drake sat flanked by Connor Hawke and Grace Choi. Roy was between Grace and Helena, with Michael Holt, aka Mr. Terrific, seated between Helena and Connor.

A slow smile spread across Roy's face. "Great work, people. Now let's all get the hell out of Gotham until Wingster appreciates it."

* * *

_12:45 a.m._

"Roy did _what_?" Dick shouted in angry disbelief. "And you went along with it?"

Tim faced him nervously, although more confidently than he would have a year ago.

"I couldn't exactly stop him," he replied. "Look, bro'. It's not even like it's a bad idea. Akins wanted Batman running around while you were visiting Bruce. That's what he got. It was even your idea to have two Batmen out there."

"Two, Tim. Not five! Don't you get it? Somebody could have gotten killed out there tonight!"

"Par for the course," Tim shot back. He paused. "Look. If Roy had asked me, I would've said no. But he didn't. And we did good. Grace and Huntress even nailed Riddler."

"Nice to know _some_ of us accomplished something tonight," Dinah said. "The ME said he'd never heard of Stearns until his name turned up on the autopsy order. I checked the hospital directory and there's no Stearns on the staff."

"No listing in the phone directory either," Barbara chimed in. "But there's something so familiar about that moniker. Dinah, go back tomorrow morning? Maybe someone on the day shift would recognize the name."

Dinah shrugged. "Okay, if you say so, Babs. But I think it'll be a total waste of--"

Tim gasped. "Oh. Migod."

"What?" Dinah asked.

"You know," Tim said tightly, "Brentwood had an enriched curriculum in a lot of subjects. Including English Literature."

The other three looked at each other, then back at Tim. "Go on," Dick urged.

"My last term there, we were covering 'The Wasteland'." His face had grown pale. "The poet who composed that work was Thomas Stearns _Eliot_."

Three pairs of eyes widened. Three jaws dropped. Thomas Stearns Eliot. Thomas Elliot. Doctor Thomas Elliot. _Hush_.

"This," Dick stated, "is _not_ good."


	6. Finding the Will

Disclaimer: See previous chapters. "Sign of Life" lyrics copyright 2002 by Universal Studios. Recorded by Leann Rimes on her _Twisted Angel_ CD. Batman-Riddler dialogue written by Jeph Loeb. Taken verbatim from _Batman #619_. Rae Green's dialogue co-authored by Charlene Edwards. Legal advice by Charlene Edwards. Beta by Charlene Edwards. Gratitude, all mine! Special thanks to Starbatz for Stirk background info.

_It's a sign of life_

_To be so confused_

_You jump and it feels_

_Like you're falling_

_You find the hope, the strength, the heart_

_And just when you think there's nothing left_

'_Cause when it feels just like you're drowning_

_That's when you fight for every breath_

_You find the faith, the will, the words_

_To break through the silence and the pain_

'_Cause when it feels just like you're dying_

_That's a sign of life_

_--Desmond Child, Gregg Pagani, Gary Burr, "Sign of Life"_

**Chapter 6: Finding the Will**

"Hush," Barbara repeated. "I'd say this has just gotten a lot more complicated."

"How does he fit in, though?" Tim wondered.

Barbara's fingers flew across her keyboard. "The first time we… or rather, Bruce faced him, he was hired muscle. Riddler had figured out who Batman was. Elliot was Nigma's doctor, as well as one of Bruce's old friends. What we didn't know, then, was that Elliot had a grudge against Bruce, because when--" she frowned in disgust. "When Tommy Elliot was a cute little kid, of about eight or so, he decided life would be _so_ much better with his parents out of the way. So, the precocious little thing cut the brake line on Daddy's car, and caused it to veer off a bridge. Daddy was beyond help, but Doctor Wayne managed to save Mom's life, to Tommy's utter dismay, and--"

"And he's hated Bruce ever since?" Dick broke in. "And they want to put _Bruce _in Arkham? What's wrong with this picture?"

"What's wrong with it," Barbara said, "among other things, is that, according to Bruce's files, Nigma masterminded the whole scheme. He got Tommy's help by letting him know that they had a common 'enemy', but he cooked up the whole idea."

"Or," Dick said intently, "that's what they both wanted Bruce to believe. "You're getting this from Bruce's notes, or is there a transcript?"

Barbara's eyes narrowed. "Transcript. Bruce paid a visit to Arkham," a slightly mocking note crept into her voice, as she enabled voice-mode, "and…"

_-This will NOT be recorded_, Bruce's voice came through clearly. "…It sounds like he fibbed, right there," Barbara finished. Bruce's voice continued.

_No one is listening in. I think you know why. I honestly didn't think you were capable of it. "Criminal mastermind" and YOU don't come together immediately._

A new, slightly nasal voice, responded smugly. _That was sort of the point, wasn't it?_

_-Was it?_

_-You still don't have all the pieces. That's why you're here. This is fun._

"He's enjoying it," Tim said suddenly. "He's the stupid kid in the schoolyard chanting 'I know something you don't know.'"

Dick nodded, as listened to Batman asking Riddler about where he'd obtained the Kryptonite for Ivy's lipstick.

-_Where did you get it for that ring?_ _You have enemies in VERY high places. But you didn't hear that from me._

Dick frowned, then glanced around at the others, eyes glinting with realization. "Notice how he's not actually admitting to any of it," he said slowly. "Bruce isn't asking Nigma outright whether he was behind it all… he's assuming, and Nigma's _letting_ him."

"Why?" Dinah asked. "What does he gain?"

"Rodney Dangerfield's heart's desire," Dick replied. He laughed suddenly. "Bruce just said it himself: you don't normally put 'Riddler' and 'criminal mastermind' together in the same sentence. It must get a little frustrating for the guy… he tries, and tries, and somehow he never makes it off the B-list. So, with Hush missing, presumed dead, Nigma takes the credit… and gets even Batman to admit he didn't see that one coming… because Hush was manipulating everything from behind the scenes…

The recording droned on in the background.

_-Everyone wants something._

_-Poison Ivy?_

_-Money. And she's got a thing about Catwoman._

_-Harley Quinn?_

_-Love. Getting to work with the Joker._

_-The Joker… HE couldn't have been easy._

_-At first. When he heard "the Jason Todd Gag," he couldn't resist…_

"Riddler?" Dick asked rhetorically. "Respect. A chance to confound Batman. The opportunity to get a couple minutes of glory… but what's Hush's angle? What does he gain, if Riddler takes centre stage on this one?" His brows knitted together, as the recording continued to play. Suddenly he drew in his breath and leaned in closer to the speaker.

-_What time is it when an elephant sits on a fence?_

_-What?_

_-What time is it when an elephant sits on a fence?_

"That's it," Dick whispered.

_-Time to get a new fence. Everyone knows that one. It's worthless._

"Oh, no it isn't," Dick countered.

"What?" Barbara asked. Dick glanced around. Tim and Dinah also looked blank.

"What time is it when an elephant sits on a fence?" Dick repeated. "Time to wonder who helped him get on that fence in the first place… an elephant can't exactly climb one on its own." A grim smile appeared on his face. "Damn. Bruce had it. It was staring him right in the face. And somehow, he didn't make that last connection."

"I still don't--" Tim started to say.

"The elephant was an exercise in misdirection. We were asking the wrong question. It's not what Riddler gains by being taken for the mastermind…"

Barbara nodded excitedly as comprehension dawned on her. "It's what Hush gains by _not_ being taken for him!" she chimed in. "If we assume Hush is labour and Nigma's management…" she looked guiltily at Dinah for a moment."

"Water under the bridge, Red," Black Canary said lightly. At Tim's inquisitive glance she shook her head. "Long story. You had to be there. Bottom line, if we assume Riddler came up with the idea, we underestimate everybody else he involved in the scheme." She nodded to herself, as understanding dawned. "We figure he either paid, blackmailed, or talked everybody else into going along with him--"

"When, going by Elliot's track record _since_ then, it looks like it was either an equal partnership, or Hush was the power behind the throne," Dick nodded. His expression turned serious. "Which means bad news for the rest of us, unfortunately. Because we're dealing with somebody intelligent, educated, thorough," he thought for a moment, "extremely patient, wealthy enough to be able to afford just about any tool he might need--"

Tim cleared his throat. "Dick? You're describing Bruce, you know."

"I wish," Dick said grimly. "If I'm right, Tommy's also able to manipulate the likes of Joker, Killer Croc, Catwoman, and Superman, and get them dancing to his tune. I honestly don't know whether Bruce could do that." He frowned, thinking. "Alright. As of this moment, finding Hush and Black Mask get equal, and top, priority. Babs, call Cass back here, Bludhaven's going to have to do without us for the next little while. If things get really bad in that part of the world, we'll have to re-evaluate, but for now, I want Robin and Batgirl in Gotham."

Barbara nodded. "And you'll be--"

Dick hesitated. "Right now? I'm going to get some sleep. I'm meeting with Rae Green this afternoon. I want to know what she thinks Bruce's chances are. After that, I'll check in with Lucius, make sure WE is still standing."

"And--"

Dick drew a deep breath. "It's like this," he said hesitantly. "From everything I've learned… from what you told me, Tim," he nodded to the younger crime fighter, "from what Bruce has said, and not said in the past… when Bane came to Gotham, the first time, the way he took Bruce down was by wearing him out. Bane studied him, figured out how he'd react in a given situation, and set things up so that Bruce wouldn't get the opportunity to relax, much less sleep, until the crisis was over. The mob war last summer was the same idea, except Bruce did it all to himself. And, not to bring my own baggage into this, but I went through something pretty similar not too long ago, culminating with me and Blockbuster facing off in a stairwell." He glanced around, noting a distinct _lack_ of surprise on the part of Tim. He wasn't sure whether he was supposed to be relieved or dismayed by that, so he chose to ignore it. "Bottom line? Bane, Black Mask, Blockbuster… they've all managed, at one time or another, to take down Bruce, or myself, by playing to our… psychologies. Manipulating things so that their… target… feels he can't take the time to eat, rest, or even think. Getting us so caught up in the situation that all we can do is act and react and hope we catch a breather soon, only we don't… and," he grimaced, "we fall for it." His expression hardened as he continued. "Every. Single. Time." He looked at each of them in turn, waiting for them to meet his eyes. "Well, that ends, now. It has to. I don't know about the rest of you, but with everything at stake, I can't afford to operate at anything less than peak efficiency. That's why I want Cass back from the 'Haven today. We're not going to catch a breather… not one of us… unless we _take _one. And we've got to. So. I'm taking mine tomorrow night. Robin, you and Batgirl will be handling the city. The night after that… Tim, you're off, and it'll be Cass and me. Cass gets the next night. And off means 'off.' It doesn't mean sitting in one of the satellite caves poring over data. It doesn't mean using the comlink to find out how those of us 'on duty' are handling it. If you get a sudden flash of inspiration, by all means, call it in, but that's as far as it goes. Babs," he added, straight-faced, "in the third compartment of the left gauntlet of the Nightwing suit, you'll find a small canister of ver-sed." He glanced away, with a wry smile. "I… um… raided Bruce's supply of knockout sprays the other night when I ran back for a spare cape. Take the canister out, now. If I do try to go on the town, later, you not only have my permission to use it on me, you have a direct _order_ to use it on me. Any questions?"

Barbara considered. "When all this gets resolved," she began seriously, "is there any way you think you can give Bruce that same speech? Verbatim? Because someone should have told it to him years ago."

Dick blinked as he tried to read her expression. An instant later, a grin split her face from ear to ear, as she wheeled over to him, seized his hands, and pulled him down to her eye level. "Welcome back," she whispered. She hesitated a moment, then, with a self-conscious laugh, she shifted her hands to his shoulders, and drew him closer. With an answering grin, he hugged her back.

"I love you," he whispered.

"Ditto."

* * *

James Gordon was waiting outside Akins' office when he arrived later that morning. 

"Jim," Akins greeted him with a smile and some measure of surprise. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Let's talk in your office," Gordon replied grimly.

Akins' smile fell away instantly, as he unlocked the door and held it open for Gordon to precede him. Looking at the older man standing opposite him, Akins felt like a schoolchild summoned before the principal. "Something I can help you with?" He asked, reminding himself that _he _was currently the man in charge.

"I hope so," Gordon said. "I hope you can help me understand why you pulled that stunt on Grayson last night?"

At the mention of Wayne's son, Akins' expression hardened. "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you?"

"No." Akins said flatly. "I let him into the room. He got his visit. Meanwhile, we had seventeen confirmed Batman sightings between ten and eleven last night, at least five of them put him simultaneously in completely different neighbourhoods, four of them nowhere near the hospital. And you're accusing me of pulling a stunt?"

"Are you that convinced that Grayson had something to do with those sightings?" Gordon asked seriously. Without waiting for a response, he snapped, "visiting hours were over at ten. The only reason he got to see Wayne at all was because he was a couple minutes early and the nurse was a couple minutes late."

Akins' stunned expression told Gordon what he'd needed to know. "It never occurred to me," he said slowly, "that the hospital would enforce that policy, given the circumstances."

Gordon raised an eyebrow. "Circumstances."

"Well… yes. He's isolated from the rest of the patients, there's no way late-night visitors would disturb anyone else. I was told the doctors are trying to adjust his sleep cycle to something more typical, but without sedation, I'd think he'd normally be awake at that hour--"

"It's a hospital, Mike," Gordon retorted. "They live by policies and schedules." He wanted to add a few choice phrases about the security measures currently in force in Wayne's room, but refrained, guessing that antagonizing the current commissioner would not help matters. "Have you been to see him, at all?"

Akins shook his head. "I've had other things on my mind. All of a sudden, the gangs are using armour-piercing bullets in drive-by murders. One officer got shot in Tricorner, the other night, maybe a stone's throw from your old place. There've been a half-dozen other shootings around the city, since then. The victims in those cases were civilians. Not that the distinction matters. Last night… there were no fewer than twenty-five burglary attempts, eighteen of them successful, fifteen attempted muggings, fourteen assaults--not counting those perpetrated by some copycat in a bat-suit, incidentally--"

"Heard Riddler's back in custody," Gordon interrupted, smoothly.

"He is," Akins admitted sourly. "And I know I should be glad of it, no matter who brought him in."

At Gordon's raised eyebrow Akins clarified. "Nigma insisted it was a 'Bat-woman' if you can believe that."

"Batgirl?"

Akins shook his head. "I've seen Batgirl. From the description Nigma gave the arresting officer, this was someone new." He glowered. "I wish I knew how Grayson pulled it off."

Gordon blinked. "Grayson. You're that convinced."

"You used to be smart, Jim. He comes back to Gotham, and inside of two nights we've got another Batman running around."

"Last night, to hear you tell it, it was more than one, and Grayson had an alibi. An airtight alibi that twenty-one officers inside the hospital could probably vouch for. Did you want to double check with the snipers on the roof, too?"

Akins' expression hardened. "What are you implying, Jim?"

Gordon leaned in closer. "I'm not implying anything, Mike. I'm stating outright that when a couple of press conferences make it apparent that Batman won't be out on the streets, certain quarters take that bit of news as a license to settle a few old scores. I'm stating that at a time when you need every available officer out there, you're keeping more than thirty of them tied up on guard detail, for a prisoner who, at this moment, has no chance of escaping!"

"He's Batman!" Akins snarled. He sprang from his chair and leaned halfway across the desk. "He broke out of a guarded prisoner transport on the way back from a court appearance. He fought off virtually every mobster in Gotham when they had him surrounded in that stadium. There's not a roadblock we've set up that he hasn't avoided or broken through. Don't you goddamned stand there and tell me he's got no chance of escaping!"

The rubber tip of Gordon's cane was suddenly pressed against Akins' Adam's apple. "Sit down, Mike," Gordon said firmly. "And listen to me carefully." He kept one hand braced on the desk for support. It was a risk. If Akins were thinking clearly, he would realize that there was nothing to stop him from knocking away the cane… or pushing it backwards and knocking Gordon off his feet. If the current commissioner recognized this, he gave no sign. Eyes blazing, he lowered himself into his chair.

Gordon removed the cane, mentally conceding that Kessler had been right, after all; it _was_ a weapon. "A man," he gritted through clenched teeth, "with a leg in traction can_not_ leave his bed. Any attempt to move him until that bone heals could result in _permanent_ disability. How exactly do you think his people are planning to get him out? Drag him through the air vents? Rig a pulley system out his window and lower him eight stories to the pavement, bed, weights, and all? Get serious, Mike. And when you do, remember that the police aren't the only ones who've been wanting to get their hands on him for a while. If I were Joker, or Scarecrow, I'd be watching very carefully to see which hospital, or precinct lock-up, had the most security… and then I'd start asking myself why. Your SWAT team might be endangering every staff member, patient, and visitor at Central Hospital, or didn't you think of that?"

Jim watched carefully. For the briefest second, he saw indecision flit across Akins' face. Then it was gone, replaced by anger. "I know what I'm doing, Gordon," he snapped. "I really doubt any sane person is going to challenge a guard that heavy--" he broke off abruptly, as Jim nodded.

"Any sane person," the former commissioner repeated, drawing the words out softly and slowly. "But I was talking about Joker and Scarecrow just now, wasn't I?" He paused. "You've got Batman in custody, and it's no longer my place to agree or disagree with that. But I'm urging you to leave it there. Don't go after the rest of them. It's a bad idea."

Akins shook his head. "We have the ringleader. Of course we're going after the smaller fish, too. After yesterday…"

Gordon looked up, sharply. "Yesterday? Mike, do me a favor and elaborate so I don't jump to conclusions." His plea was a bit late, he realized. He already was, and he didn't much care for them.

Akins sat implacably, both hands holding the edge of his desk, at opposite corners of the desk blotter. "I had Grayson dead to rights, Jim," he said. "I was this close to proving that he was out there in direct violation of my express orders. I don't know how he arranged for those… those… bat-fakes to be out there, but if he thinks he can just sit back and laugh at me, he's got another…"

"Is that how you're taking it?" Jim asked slowly, disappointment heavy in his tone. "Mike, right at this moment, he's among the very few who _aren't _laughing. Or did you not see today's paper?"

Akins had seen it. The editorial cartoon in the _Herald_ had been a portrait of himself, minus his nose. He'd been drawn holding an old-fashioned shaving razor in one hand, and the missing body part in the other, with a caption underneath reading 'never liked my face, anyway.' The caricature was framed by two opinion pieces. The first was titled: 'Black Mask's in command, Batman's in custody. Anyone else got a problem with that?' The second read 'Akins' strategy to end the shootings: lock up the Batman.' More telling, the letters to the editor were meant to be a representative sampling of the views of the readership. Of the dozen that they had printed pertaining to Batman's capture, ten were highly critical, and one vacillated, trying to see both sides of the issue. Only one letter showed strong support for the GCPD's action. "What's your point, Jim?" He asked.

"Only this," Gordon replied. "You wanted to arrest Grayson on charges of vigilantism, he got himself sanctioned."

"And couldn't wait to show up and throw that in my face," Akins interrupted.

"That's one way to look at it, I suppose," Gordon said mildly. "It could also be that he wanted to let you know, up front, that you wouldn't be able to take him into custody, before you made the attempt. Gave you a chance to avoid an embarrassing situation, as it were."

Akins looked furiously at him. Gordon continued. "You told him Nightwing wasn't welcome in Gotham. Nightwing hasn't appeared since."

"Batman has."

"Yes, he has. And Grayson was accounted for at the time. If you have proof that he was involved, go ahead and bring him in--"

"So nice to know I have your nod of approval," Akins remarked sarcastically. "And if I did have proof, or even reasonable grounds for suspicion, I would do exactly that. But right now, what I have is a young man with every valid reason to be back in this city, no evidence to connect him with… with _whoever_ it is in the suit this time, and…"

"And?" Gordon asked, after a moment.

"And," Akins all but growled, "with the stance the media is taking in all this, I can't chance him filing wrongful arrest or harassment charges against the GCPD."

"Mmmm," Gordon rumbled. "That was never a consideration before."

Akins frowned suspiciously. "Excuse me?"

Gordon did his best to keep his expression neutral. "Well, Mike, simply put, up until the mob war, the relationship between vigilantes and law enforcement had been one of finding a… call it an acceptable grey area, if you like. We tolerated them out there on the streets, provided that they didn't kill. They assisted us in apprehending our suspects, but not to the point of testifying in court, seeing as that would mean disclosing their real identities. However, their inability to testify in court also precluded their ability to file suit, for the same reason. Up to last summer, the concessions had been on both sides, and the system, for the most part worked.

"Mike, over the past few days, you've insisted that Grayson meet you entirely on your terms. You questioned the legality of his operations. He retaliated with an official sanction that you can't touch, unless certain… circumstances are met. You tried to keep him from seeing Wayne--and I sincerely hope that your reason _was_ the legitimate security concern you'd indicated…"

"Just what are you insinuating?" Akins asked testily.

"Nothing," Jim said quickly. "Only, that from the way this conversation started out, well, Mike, up to this point I never would have thought to accuse you of pettiness, and I'm certainly not about to do so, now. But your actions could definitely be read that way."

Akins was silent. Jim continued.

"Last summer, one of your people put a bullet in his thigh, on your orders. If he were almost anybody else, the instant that his identity became known, he would have taken legal action. He still could, considering that when you announced Batman's identity, you effectively 'outed' his as well. I'm no lawyer, but I'm sure that there's one around who could argue that your revelation has hampered Nightwing's effectiveness, possibly on a global scale. But the only time Grayson found it necessary to bring the subject up was when you tried to keep him from seeing Wayne.

"You've been holding press conferences to justify your actions. He's held one, to try to contain the… collateral damage caused by your statements."

"Now, just hold on one moment!" Akins said sharply. "Are you implying that we should have dropped all charges because Wayne's company might have met with financial hardship? Look, Jim, I'm as sorry as the next person that WE could be impacted, but--"

"Did you contact Wayne Enterprises before making your announcement, yesterday? Did you give them a chance to prepare a strategy to deal with the fallout? Or were you just going to let them find out at the same time that the rest of the city did?"

"It's not my job to--"

"Yes, Mike," Gordon said quietly. "Technically speaking, you're one hundred percent correct. But it should have been your responsibility. If it had been me, I wouldn't have made that statement without warning Fox, or someone else on the board of WE. Did you even think to find out how many jobs could have been jeopardized? Because Grayson did. I don't know if you were paying attention, but his original speech, the text that he prepared, was _only_ about the future of Wayne Enterprises. Yes, the press asked questions on other subjects afterwards, and he had planned for that, or else I doubt he could have fielded them half as well as he did. But that's the point. Grayson planned for those variables. Which is more than you did. He's not an employee of WE, and he's not on the board. Fox could have just issued a statement and hoped for the best, but that might not have been enough."

"And just how," Akins demanded, "do you know so much about him?"

"I've known him more than half his life," Gordon said. "And before you ask, yes, he has been in contact with me since his arrival in Gotham. More than that, I've got two people whose judgment I trust as much, if not more than my own who can vouch for him. Now, Mike, I've been listening to you, not just today, but yesterday on television, and the day before that when you arranged for me to visit Wayne--for which I'm grateful, by the way. And I really do hope that your motivations stem from real security concerns. I want to believe that, more than anything. Because if you _are_ letting personal issues, and pride cloud your judgment…"

"What?" Akins asked. "You'll start a grassroots campaign to get me fired?"

Gordon sighed. "I won't have to, Mike." He pointed to the newspaper on Akins' desk. "It's already happening." He waited for the commissioner to lower his eyes. "I have some advice. You can laugh at it, ignore it, or shout at me, when I'm done, but I'm asking you to hear me out." Akins looked at him and nodded assent. "Stop trying to 'catch' Grayson. If he's doing what you suspect, you won't be able to, anyway. And if he isn't, well, he just might turn out to be a bigger problem for you operating within the confines of the law than outside of it. Remember… he can testify, now."

"Anything else?" Akins asked testily.

"Ask yourself why, with the city practically a war zone, at this point, you're targeting him in the first place. If you truly believe him to be a menace, well and good. I disagree, but you're in charge. If it's more an issue of pride, stop. Stop now, while you can. Or it's going to bring you down."

"Pride?" Akins asked in disbelief. "Is that what you think this is all about?"

"He's met you on _your _home turf," Gordon pointed out. "In broad daylight. On the legal front, and on the PR front. And he's not only managed to walk away looking good, he's managed to keep the GCPD from looking bad." His eye fell again on the newspaper. "Well, worse than the press has already painted it, anyway," he amended. "You know as well as I do that he could have attacked police effectiveness and efficiency. He had cause, he had evidence--the same evidence those columnists mentioned today, I might add. More importantly, he had precious little to lose. And he came up with that comment about lifeboats on the Titanic, instead. He's playing by your rules, Mike. And he's beating you. And what must be absolutely galling for you," Gordon added, not quite able to keep a gleam of humour from his eyes, "is that he doesn't even seem to realize it."

Seeing the furious look on Akins' face, Jim realized that he might have gone too far, but he also knew that he had meant every word. "Just think about it, Mike," he said quietly. "I'll see myself out."

* * *

Dick rode the elevator up to Rachel Green's law firm. He hadn't been there in nearly three years, not since his adoption had been finalized. He couldn't remember whether she'd had a receptionist before, but she had one now… possibly a student intern, Dick mused to himself. The young man behind the desk took his name eagerly and immediately raised the phone to his ear. Apparently, somebody was trying to impress the boss today. A moment later, Rachel entered the outer office. 

"Mr. Grayson," she said, smiling cordially. "It's good to see you again," she pumped his hand firmly. "Won't you come this way, please?" She ushered him into her private office.

Once the door closed behind them, her expression turned serious. "I can guess why you asked to meet with me," she said quietly.

"What are his chances, Rae?" Dick asked. He was in no mood for small talk.

She motioned him to a chair. "Sit down." Rae sighed. "Tomorrow, I'm going to move to postpone the competency hearing. That buys us up to ninety days."

Dick tried to smile. "But that's good, right?"

"Compared to the alternatives," she admitted, "yes. But only compared to the alternatives."

"Those being…" Dick wasn't sure whether he really wanted to know.

Rachel Green drew a deep breath. "If the hearing goes ahead tomorrow, from what I've seen of his behaviour since the arrest, he will be deemed incompetent to stand trial, and remanded indefinitely to Arkham Asylum."

Dick managed not to gasp, but it was a near thing.

Rae continued, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort. "If, by some chance, he's able to persuade the judge otherwise, it'll be a more…conventional prison, until such time as the trial takes place."

_Great_, Dick thought to himself. _Arkham, or one of the cells at the GCPD lock-up._ That wasn't exactly much of a choice. "And, if the postponement goes through?"

"Arkham until the new hearing takes place." Seeing his shocked expression, she continued. "Believe me, I intend to make sure he's kept segregated from the general population, whatever happens. And he's not going anywhere until he can be moved. Given the normal recovery time for Mr. Wayne's injury, that won't be for weeks, in any event." Her professional demeanour softened slightly. "I can only imagine what this must be like for you. Unfortunately, I don't have better news. He won't be released on his own recognizance, that's a given. If bail was denied the last time Wayne was facing charges, well, I can go through the motions, if you like, and I'll be suitably outraged when the judge denies bail again, this time, but we both know it's going to be denied. At this point, the only real question is not _whether_ he'll be confined, but _where_."

_And wherever it is, there are going to be a bunch of people around who'll be only too happy to tear him apart._ "And you're saying Arkham would be _better?_"

Rae worked the button on her retractable pen absently. "In general, yes. With most of my clients, Arkham's preferable to a jailhouse, especially when competency issues come up. It's also a bonus should it become necessary to file suppression motions. And of course we'd bypass the danger of some prison snitch trying to get a reduction on his own sentence by claiming he'd heard Mr. Wayne admit to something."

Dick frowned. "I should have thought about that," he admitted.

"No reason why," Rae countered with a quick smile. "As I understand it, your purview ends once the accused make it into police custody. That's when mine starts. Get caught off guard once, and you take precautions going forward."

"Meaning?" Dick asked, interested.

"Well, one of my first homicide trials had me representing a youth charged with second degree murder. During the bail hearing, one of the guards testified that, on the previous night, he'd 'found' a toothbrush with a razor blade on it 'on' the kid. That was the first I'd heard about it."

At Dick's low whistle, she chuckled. "I used to have a basket of china eggs on my desk," she added. "After I'd shattered two of them against the wall, I came to my senses enough to bring the rest home with me, where they'd be safe."

"Getting back to business," Dick continued, "How does it look for Bruce, if he does stand trial?"

Rae smiled. "Well, if he does, most of the charges pertaining to events occurring prior to the disbanding of the JLA would have to be dropped. That's a break for us right there. It takes care of the assault charges, and all the variations thereof, as well as rebellion, obstruction of justice, and so on. The most serious matter though, is that which pertains to the deaths of the police officers during the mob war. If there's any way that the prosecution can try him for those, they will."

"Can they?"

"Yes." Rae sighed. "They'd have to present a formal request to the United Nations, similar to what would happen if one government were to ask another to waive diplomatic immunity for one of its citizens. If the case is presented strongly enough, the UN might well grant the request. Now, I'll admit that this sort of thing is a bit outside my experience, and I'd need to refresh my memory before I could give you a definitive answer, but I would imagine the process to be long and bureaucratic. There's bound to be red tape, appeals, injunctions… but ultimately, yes, I do think that the prosecution's motion would be granted. Especially, now, with the Justice League disbanded, and with Batman's identity compromised, it might not appear to be worth it to the UN to want to afford him any protection."

"Twenty-eight counts of second degree murder." Dick intoned hollowly.

"Well, probably not that," Rae said. "I can likely get it knocked down to voluntary manslaughter, maybe even involuntary manslaughter under the criminal negligence theory."

That still didn't sound good. "Meaning?"

"Best case scenario?" Rae sighed again. "Arkham. The court finds him not guilty by reason of insanity, and sentences him to inpatient treatment for an indefinite period. It's basically the same thing that would happen if they found him incompetent to stand trial except," she looked at Dick and watched as he braced himself to hear the rest. "With incompetency, if he ever became competent, he could still be tried later. With a 'not guilty' verdict, if he was ever determined to be sane he could eventually be released. Worst case scenario … he's found guilty on all counts and sent to Blackgate … forever."

_No_, Dick thought to himself. _This doesn't sound good at all.

* * *

_

Tim and Barbara gaped at him. "That's the _good_ news?" The teen choked.

Barbara recovered first. "I know we were discussing it the other night, but--"

"It's what we all said," Cass broke in. "Why surprised his lawyer says same thing?"

Barbara sighed. "We were guessing. It's a little different when an experienced attorney tells you that your hunch was right."

Cass considered that, then nodded slowly. "Can we help?"

"Right now?" Dick asked. "Not directly. Gordon and I are going to keep trying to visit Bruce at the hospital, but that's more to let him know we're not abandoning him."

Tim cleared his throat. "There's another reason, too. When my dad was in the hospital all that time, after the Obeah man," he closed his eyes for a moment, I'd visit him whenever I could. And when I was off in Europe, Alfred took over. If the doctors know somebody's keeping tabs, they're more careful." Dick started to say something, but Tim continued. "And if one of the cops on guard detail is holding any grudges, maybe he or she would think twice before pulling something."

Dick considered that derisively, at first. Batman could handle forty opponents at a time. Batman could strike terror into a crowded room with a glare and a whisper. Batman could single-handedly take down the Justice League. Then another, more sobering, thought struck him. Batman was currently lying in a hospital bed, restrained, and at the mercy of the GCPD, so overwhelmed by grief and depression that he seemed almost oblivious to the larger situation. He winced. 'Batman' and 'overwhelmed' didn't normally belong in the same sentence. Much as Tim's statement disturbed him, Dick had to concede that the teen did have a point. Slowly he nodded. "That's another reason. Tim, Cass, it's too risky for both of you to try to get in to see him. All we need is for the cops to put two and two together. Babs, if you can come up with a plausible way you and Bruce could know each other, I mean know each other beyond shaking his hand once at the… the Policeman's Ball, or something, you might be able to get in. Maybe."

"Working on it," Barbara said. Tapping the chair, she remarked tartly "at least nobody's going to think I'm secretly the Huntress with this thing."

"That reminds me," Dick said. "Babs, what's your team up to, these days? You're calling yourselves the Birds of Prey, now, right?"

Barbara nodded. "We're not on a mission, right now, but that could change."

"Fine," Dick said seriously. "Until it does, if we need backup in the field, would you be willing to lend a hand?"

"Dinah would," Barbara considered. "Helena… well, you know she considers herself 'over' trying to join the Bat-brigade at this point. She'd probably get a good laugh out of it if we asked her to help out, now."

"If _I_ asked her, for sure. But… she made contact with Grace, last night. And, assuming she's turned on the radio, picked up a newspaper, or spoken to anybody in the Western Hemisphere since yesterday, she won't have to ask how Batman feels about it. Just ask her if she'd consider it as a favor."

Barbara nodded. "What happened with Lucius?"

Dick brightened. "It's a little soon to be sure, but it looks like things are going to work out. WE took a hit today on the Gotham Stock Exchange, but overall, the entire GSX was down, as were the Dow Jones, and the US dollar. And the stock only fell one and three-quarter points. That's not bad."

Barbara started to nod, then caught a faint glimmer of excitement in his eyes. "And?"

"Well," Dick said with a sigh, "Lucius is talking about renaming the company, to try to distance it more from the scandal. Bruce's grandfather founded the corporation, so Lucius is thinking of submitting a motion to the board to change the name to 'Patrick Morgan Wayne Enterprises', or PMWE for short."

"And if this whole thing blows over," Tim said sagely, "the name change can stay on the books, but the company would be able to unofficially go back to 'WE' as a shortened variation."

"Exactly."

"And?" Barbara asked again, somewhat testily.

Dick grinned. "_And_, Lucius offered me an entry-level position in media relations."

"He what?" Barbara exclaimed, as Tim let out a whoop and slapped the elder vigilante on the back. Cass looked at the three faces surrounding her, frowned in confusion, then stiffly extended her hand to Dick.

"Congratulations. Um… what did he do?"

"But…" Barbara hesitated, "you never seemed to want anything to do with the company before."

"That wasn't it exactly," Dick said. "It was more… I didn't want to take over the company, just because I was Bruce's ward. Look, that one semester when I was in college, I tried taking business administration. Not because I had any interest in it, but because I knew what Bruce expected of me. And when I flunked out, I realized that, if Bruce and I had been on speaking terms back then, had I told Bruce what happened, he would have been disappointed. He might have tried to talk me into trying some other college. But bottom line, he would have told me that he still had confidence I'd be ready to step into his shoes one day. Lousy marks, low aptitude… it all would have been a formality. I was the CEO's kid. The position would have been handed to me." He frowned. "The fancy house, the cars, the designer clothes… those never bugged me so much, but this did. If I didn't have the ability, look, maybe I understood why Bruce used to put on that clueless act in front of the Board of Directors, but the truth is, he knew exactly what was going on in the company on any given day, or could have, had he been interested. He didn't have the time to take an active role and still be Batman, so he shifted the responsibilities for WE onto Lucius, but if he'd wanted to, he could have handled things. Me… it's not just a question of the grades--I could have worked on those, maybe. It's that I found the whole program… boring."

"And this?"

Dick turned to Tim. "Lucius said," he flushed. "Well, he said that based on what happened yesterday, apparently, I might have enough talent to make a career out of this kind of thing. I told him the only reason I did as well as I did was because I had a couple friends rehearsing me. He said…"

"_Good. If you'd told me you'd made it up as you went along, you would seriously be scaring me. Planning is a **good** thing."_

Cass blinked. "He's right. You know that already. Why argue?"

"I'm not," Dick said. "I'm just explaining. I don't want to run the company. Frankly, I could do without the gossip at the water cooler about how I only got the job because I'm the boss's son. And if Bruce were to have made me some executive something-or-other, that gossip would have been true. But getting an offer like that, at a time like this," he grinned, "that's something I earned, not something handed to me because of who my father is. Plus, I need a job. And plus, once I got into the rhythm of it, I actually enjoyed it, yesterday."

"So you're going to take it," Barbara stated.

"I think so. I told Lucius I'd sleep on it. He said there's no rush, but…"

"_If you get any other offers in the interim, let me know. If it's a question of benefits, we might be able to negotiate."_

He looked at Barbara. "What do you think?"

Barbara shrugged. "I think it gives you a perfect reason to stay in Gotham until things get resolved. I think Lucius knows a good thing when he sees it. I think that if this is what you want, then you should go for it."

Tim glanced at his watch. "Speaking of going," he said, "Cass and I had better suit up."

"Right," Dick nodded. "Alright. You both know what you're doing, so I'm not going to insult you by telling you to be careful. Because you both will be. If you run into Black Mask, Hush, or anyone else who might mean more trouble than you can handle, call for backup."

"Yes, Mother," Tim sighed.

Cass rolled her eyes. "Nag, nag, nag…" she muttered, provoking a startled laugh from Barbara.

"Gimme a break," Dick said lightly. "I won't be coming in on your frequencies while you're out patrolling, so you're getting six hours worth of verbal harassment in sixty seconds. Deal with it."

"Sh'yeah, right," Tim snorted. "Later, Bro." He headed for the garage, where he'd parked the Redbird earlier.

Cass paused, uncertainly. "Later," she echoed, as she headed for her motorcycle, also parked in the garage.

* * *

Robin laid out the last of the would-be carjackers with a quick uppercut to the jaw, followed by a blow to the solar plexus. As he cuffed the dazed youth, a prickling sensation at the back of his neck told him that someone was approaching from behind. He whirled, relaxing instantly at the sight of a familiar caped-and-cowled form. "Knew you couldn't sit this out," he scoffed. "What's up?" 

"Trouble," Batman replied. He pointed to a low-rise apartment building, which had once seen better days. The same could be said for the neighbourhood as a whole. Once a solidly middle-class district, three decades had transformed the Mulvehill Plateau section of Oldtown into an eight-block slum. Refuse overflowed from haphazard trash bins, and graffiti festooned nearly every blank wall. Any unbarred windows were broken, and the few people out on the street at this hour looked as though they would probably be sleeping outdoors, as well.

"What kind of trouble?" Robin asked.

Batman held up a crystal teardrop that dangled from a glittering golden chain. It caught the light from an overhead streetlamp, setting off multicoloured flickers. "Diamond," he said. "Stolen. There are more. In there."

Tim blinked, unable to tear his eyes away from the swaying pendant. "Let's go," he said uncertainly. Yet something made him hesitate. It wasn't just that Batman should be able to handle a simple burglary himself, it was… He struggled to move back. Batman advanced, one hand holding the swinging locket, the other clutching the edge of his cape, pulling it before him. And then… it was as though he could see the cape and cowl super-imposed on a skinny, balding man who resembled nothing so much as a human spider. "You… aren't… Batman!" He gasped, trying to fight, but unable to make his limbs obey. The illusion fell away entirely as Stirk moved in upon him. Instead of a cape, the Arkham escapee was holding a cloth large enough to cover a man's face.

The cloth was firmly pressed over Robin's mouth and nose, and the world went dark…

* * *

Romy came off-duty at seven the following morning. Somehow, despite her intent to grab a bagel and decaf, then head home for a shower and sleep before meeting Marcus for a… well what were you supposed to call a breakfast eaten at 2 p.m.? Brunch? Blupper? She grimaced. _You know you've been working too hard when you start inventing new words._ Despite her gameplan, her Taurus seemed to have a mind of its own. And it was driving her back to the hospital. 

She gripped the steering wheel angrily. She didn't want to see him again. She had no intention of seeing him again. He could just stay in that room until they packed him off where he belonged.

She pulled into a vacant parking space as, unbidden, another face floated into her mind. A face with grey eyes that shifted from blue to hazel depending on the lighting, and rugged facial features framed by curly rust-coloured hair. Her features softened as she blinked. Now what was _he_ doing in her thoughts? Sure, Dr. Hardy was decent-looking, well-spoken… tall… smart… a good listener… kind of sweet. She slapped herself smartly on the forehead. _Hel-lo! Marcus Driver? Is that name ringing any bells for you, girl?_ As long as she was here, anyway, Romy decided that she might as well stop off at the hospital cafeteria for a quick bite. Then, straight home for sleep and shower, as planned.

* * *

Dick awoke at eight, and padded upstairs to the kitchen. Barbara greeted him with relief. "I was just about to wake you," she said. "Daddy left already. He said as long as he's kept up his Y membership, he might as well get some swimming in." 

He reached for the coffeepot. "He swims?" Somehow, that wasn't one of the things that he imagined Gordon doing in his spare time.

Barbara nodded. "He took it up after the shooting. In the water, he's not as limited, physically."

Comprehension dawned. "That makes sense. So. I think I'll give Lucius a call, confirm I'll take that job offer, and then--"

"Dick," Barbara interrupted, "Tim never signed off, last night. And he never came back, either. Cass is looking for him now, but…"

"Show me what you've got," he said grimly, as he slathered peanut butter onto two slices of whole wheat bread. He squirted a pool of honey onto the centre of one slice and pressed the second one on top. No point asking Babs why she hadn't woken him sooner. He was the one who had laid the ground rules. Off meant off. "It's morning. Breather's over."

* * *

Romy had no sooner taken a larger-than-polite bite from her cream-cheese-laden bagel, when she heard an all-too-familiar baritone exclaim "Detective Chandler! I was hoping I'd run into you again!" 

_Terrific_, she groaned inwardly, trying to finish what was in her mouth quickly, without choking on it.

"Oh!" He said, noting the reason for her distress. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

She swallowed the bagel, taking a long swig of the Red Zinger tea that she'd ordered in place of decaf. "You didn't," she mumbled, red-faced. "I was just getting off-shift, and I thought I'd come here for a quick bite to eat."

He grinned. "All the way from GCPD headquarters?"

Romy felt her face flushing. Dr. Hardy seemed altogether too sure of himself. "Yes," she snapped. "There's something I need to find out from--" She caught herself before she mentioned Wayne's name. Akins still hadn't revealed where Batman was being held, and this was a public cafeteria. Anyone could be listening.

Hardy nodded understanding. "I guess he probably would be the one to give you closure, at that," he agreed. "Except, rumour has it, he's not doing much talking."

Romy thought back. "He didn't say a lot yesterday, but maybe he'll be more talkative today. I can try, anyway." She hadn't planned on doing anything of the kind, but thinking it over, it actually wasn't a bad idea. She'd tried something similar a few months earlier, the day that Nate Patton's parents had flown into Gotham to have their son taken off life-support. Distraught, Romy had cornered Angie Molina at a book signing, and asked her about what had happened in the stockroom. Molina, though, had been unable to recall anything. Chalk it up to stress or shock or something like it, but after speaking with Molina, Romy Chandler had no more answers than she'd had previously. Funny how asking Batman about it had never seriously occurred to her. It wasn't as if you could normally get the man to stick around long enough. But now… now, it was another story. She smiled to herself. Another trip to Wayne's room was definitely in order. She blinked, realizing Hardy had just said something. "Sorry, what?"

A gloved hand held a card of physician's medication samples. On the foil backing, she saw something like 20 small white tablets, each in a protective plastic bubble. Hardy grinned. "Sorry. I was saying, I was thinking about our conversation, yesterday. If you want to try compensating for your drowsiness, I'd start with these very slowly. Maybe a half tablet after getting up for the first week, and only if you think you need it. If it's working well, then maybe we should schedule a few sessions--purely professional, of course…"

"Oh, of course," rejoined Romy.

"…with an eye towards getting you able to cope without… um… pharmaceutical assistance."

Romy wavered. "I don't think I should," She said, pushing the sample card back to him.

He pocketed it with faint disappointment.

"Don't misunderstand," she said hastily, "but shouldn't I check with my regular doctor, first?"

"Oh, absolutely," Hardy agreed. "But I know that waiting around to get reimbursed by your health plan for the cost of meds can be a real pain. And Desoxyn doesn't come cheap. So if you can get… her? Him?"

"Him." Nice of him not to assume, though.

"Him to approve it, you can start with the samples immediately," he pushed the card back to her, "and see me if you need more when these run out. Okay?"

She found herself smiling, a little. For just one moment, it had seemed… no, he was just trying to help. And maybe he wasn't being quite proper in handing her the medication without a prescription, but then, he _was_ a doctor. And, he certainly hadn't protested her request for a second opinion. This probably was a simple case of a man in a position to lend a helping hand, and choosing to do so. Hesitantly, she said, "I've got about twenty-five pounds of apples going rotten on me. I was planning to turn them into applesauce this weekend. Would you like a jar or two?"

Dr. Hardy's eyes widened, and his face lit up with a genuine grin. "That would be excellent, Detective Chandler," he replied.

"Romy." She smiled. For a moment, it seemed to her that when he'd given her the card a second time, he'd removed it from his other pocket, but that was probably just her imagination…

* * *

Romy was almost hoping that the guards at the door would challenge her. She hadn't checked whether her clearance to enter Wayne's room had been only for the one time, or unlimited for the duration. Kessler, however, just smiled and waved her through. 

Wayne turned at her entrance. His brows knitted together, then lifted. "Detective Chandler," he stated.

At that moment, everything that Romy had been planning to say fled from her mind. She stood stock-still, staring at him.

He gazed back inquiringly. "Is there a… reason you've come back?" He asked finally.

That galvanized her. "Why? Am I interrupting anything?" She demanded. "Is there something else you need to be doing, right now?"

If he was offended by her hostility, it didn't show. "Curiosity, Detective Chandler," he said after a moment. "I… didn't expect to see you again."

Romy mulled that over, trying to find something objectionable in it. She couldn't, damn him! "I," she hesitated, realizing that to reveal the motive for her return was to allow herself to become vulnerable, once more. She wasn't sure whether she could handle that--setting up her hopes again--giving him the power to dash them, as Molina had. And if he did… that would be worse, she recognized, because if he couldn't help her, then there truly wasn't anybody else she could ask. When Molina had been unable to provide her with the answers she needed, Romy had convinced herself that, if she could only get Batman to talk to her, that would solve everything. But what if it wouldn't? She wasn't certain whether she wanted to know for sure.

"I," she started again. Then her expression hardened. "Nothing. Never mind. It was a mistake coming up here. All I wanted to know was what really happened that night. How Nate got hurt. But Angie Molina doesn't remember, and you don't talk to anybody whose initials don't start with 'James Gordon' so why on earth would you bother answering me, and I'm sorry I disturbed you, and that time I shot at you I wasn't thinking clearly…" She realized that some of the other officers in the room had turned to look at her. _Sure. They've probably never seen a woman spontaneously crack up before. Well, first rule of show business is 'leave your public wanting more', and I think I've given about enough for one day._ "Anyway, I'll let you get back to staring off into space, or whatever it is you do when the TV's not on…"

"Meditating," he replied. Some corner of his mind could appreciate the irony. Renee came every day, and spoke to him about everything under the sun that she could think of to try to bolster his spirits. And, for some reason he couldn't fathom, although he was grateful for everything that she was trying to do, this antagonistic young woman, who was presently in his room, was provoking a stronger response from him in a few short minutes than Renee had garnered in days. Maybe, if he could somehow think through the sedatives, an answer would suggest itself. But for now…

…For now, a woman was hurting. And he was in a position to help. Any other considerations paled in comparison. He thought back. "The timer on the bomb," he began slowly, "was at 48 seconds and falling when I got there…"

* * *

Consciousness returned gradually to Timothy Drake. He was groggy, and there was a sour taste in his mouth. His limbs ached. He tried to rub the sleep from his eyes, and discovered that he couldn't move his arms. He appeared to be standing against some sort of wire mesh, and the twisted metal fibres were cutting into the unprotected skin on the back of his neck, and his arms… and wrists. There was something digging in to his ankles, as well. The balls of his feet seemed to be resting directly on a wooden floor. He swivelled his head to be sure, ignoring the painful scratch as he did so. From the angle and intensity of the sunlight filtering in through the nearly-closed slats of the Venetian blinds, it had to be mid-afternoon. How long had he been out? He was still wearing most of his Robin costume--going by the short green sleeve that he could just see out the corner of his eye--but the high-collared cape that would have protected his neck, and the gloves that would have safeguarded his wrists and at least part of his arms, were gone. Wire was wrapped about his wrists and ankles, securing him spread-eagled to what seemed to be an upended bed-frame, bolted to the floor. His boots had also been removed. 

"Oh, so you're awake, young Sir!" A gleeful voice cackled. "Better, and better." A bald man capered gleefully into his field of vision. "I can't tell you what a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance," he said, with a strange gleam in his eye. "And I _am_ glad the drug kept you out for as long as it did." He chucked Robin lightly under his chin. "I've had ever so much time to prepare for you. Or…" He said, as a feral grin split his face, "perhaps I should say that I've taken the time to determine… how I might best… _prepare_ you!"

An excerpt from Batman's files chose that moment to spring from Tim's memory. _Stirk believes that he must obtain the nutrients and hormones from human hearts in order to remain alive and sane, and that these are best prepared with the body's own chemicals, i.e. norepinephrine. To this end, Stirk induces fear in his victims, literally terrifying them to death…_

Tim felt his heart begin to pound. And Stirk hadn't even started, yet…

* * *

"Why wasn't he wearing a tracer?" Dick demanded for the fifth time. He'd done a circuit of all five of the satellite caves, then checked the main one. After that, he'd tried to go upstairs into the manor, completely forgetting that he'd set off the charges and blocked off the clock access with debris. Most of the rocks were piled on the catwalk, just in front of the entrance, but some of the smaller pieces had dropped to the lower levels, and most exposed surfaces were now coated with a veneer of sand and dust. He'd had to go into the manor by a more conventional route. Dick realized that he should probably find out whether he was technically allowed access to the manor until Bruce's fate was resolved. In all likelihood, he was, but for now, he was just as happy not to have run into any police search teams while he was inside looking for Tim. That, however, had been the extent of his good fortune. He'd found no sign that the youth had been to any of the locations since the start of his patrol. 

"He's been operating basically solo out of Bludhaven," Barbara repeated. "And he didn't want Bruce keeping tabs on him."

"All well and good," Dick snapped, "but now we can't locate him either. How about the Redbird?"

"He found those also."

"GPS?"

"Disabled."

Dick frowned. "Wait a second. Bruce made those throwing knives of his, right?"

Barbara nodded. "Yes. So?"

"So, when he makes the batarangs, he builds homing signals into them. Helps him track them down and collect them, if he's trying to hide his presence at a site. If he did the same thing with Robin's knives… Hang on one second." He dashed over to the walk-in closet that was doubling as a costume vault. It still startled him to slide open the doors and see the bat-suits hanging in something so… ordinary. The basement might be filling in as a cave, but it sure didn't look like one. Dick opened the correct pouch in the utility belt, extracted a 'rang, and carried it swiftly back to Barbara's computer console. "See if you can match the frequency. With any luck…"

Barbara's eyes widened. She nodded in comprehension as her fingers flew across the console. "Well, after we eliminate places where we'd expect to find a cache of them, like the 'caves," she murmured, "Bingo!"

"Got it?"

"No, I've been on-line gambling and I just covered a card, Hunk-Wonder," she snapped. "Yes, I've got it! Residence in the Mulvehill Plateau. He's stationary. I mean _really_ stationary. Not being jostled at all."

"So, he's either not carrying them, or he's being restrained somehow, or he's asleep." Dick said. "Alright. There are still a couple hours of daylight left, but I guess I'd better suit up. If I don't check in after four hours, call in anybody you have to.

* * *

"…I saw that the EMTs had arrived," he finished, "so I carried Molina to one of the ambulances. The paramedics were… better qualified than I was to assist… your partner." 

Romy waited a full minute after Batman finished speaking. "So, if you'd known that there were nine seconds less on the timer, you would have handled it differently."

"I…" He hesitated. "I can't answer that. Any time that I'm too… slow, I review my actions… analyse what went wrong. In hindsight, there were at least eight different ways that I could have kept them both alive. But, if you're asking whether I would have recognized one of those possibilities at the time… I won't… patronize you, Detective Chandler. I don't know."

She shut her eyes tightly, and kept them closed. She pictured Nate Patton, alive, flirting with her, totally oblivious to her lack of interest--which had, perversely, been one of his more endearing qualities. She saw him ordering her out of the store. Batman hadn't been there. Nate had no real reason to expect him, and every reason to believe that he, and Molina, were both as good as dead. But he'd chosen to stay and try to save her, anyway. And, had Batman given him a choice, she knew that Nate would have told him to save Molina. "He was a hero," she stated flatly. "Without a cape, without a belt full of hi-tech toys, he was a hero."

"Yes." Batman didn't hesitate this time.

Romy stood up, and drew a deep breath. "Thank-you." Thank-you for telling me what I needed to hear, and not necessarily what I wanted to. Thank-you for the truth. She turned abruptly, and headed for the door. Hand on the knob, she turned back, feeling that there was something else she should say, but she couldn't think what.

It wasn't until she was out in the corridor again that she realized, that at the very least, she could have said 'goodbye'.

* * *

When was the last time Bruce wore the suit in daylight? Dick wondered to himself. The Batmobile was in stealth mode with nothing glaringly obvious to distinguish it from a myriad of black four-door sedans on the road on any given day. An expert might realize that the car did not directly conform to any one make or model. A layperson might note the black-tinted windows and wonder at them. But nobody was likely to recognize that the touch of a button would enable turbo jets, bulletproof shielding, and a host of other bells and whistles. 

Dick wanted to press that button, and go barrelling with all possible speed to the location flashing on his onboard computer. But he didn't dare. He was avoiding the rush hour traffic on the Aparo, driving through tree-lined residential neighbourhoods at slightly under the local speed limit, and relying on Barbara to keep the traffic lights green for him.

"You'll have to go left on Lyle," She instructed. "Stay on Giddings and you'll be down to one lane of traffic in about two blocks."

And Giddings was supposed to be a two-way street. "Got it."

There was a pause. "I know my timing could be better, but Daddy's made the arrangements." She drew a deep breath. "The funeral is set for 11:30, tomorrow morning. It'll be… private." Her voice faltered on the last word.

Dick made the left turn, and swerved right onto Hilty. "Roger that," he said, his voice sounding harsher than he'd meant it to. "Any obstacles between here and Mulvehill?"

At Oracle's negative reply, Batman increased his speed by three miles per hour. It didn't make much difference, but it made him feel better.

* * *

Tim suppressed a moan as he watched Stirk take the electric coil out of the galvanized iron sink, where it had been resting. The figure-eight-curved end of the implement glowed a cheerful orange. Stirk examined it thoughtfully before returning it to the sink. 

"I shan't keep you waiting much longer, Sir," the little man remarked. "I know the anticipation can be…" he stroked Tim's cheek with a dry, papery hand, "a killer."

Tim tried to recoil from that hand, but the wire held firm.

"Fret all you like, my boy," Stirk said gleefully. "It will help to speed things along." He turned back to his worktable and picked up a long knife. Taking a smooth metal rod in his other hand, he began to hone the blade, sliding it along the length of the rod. Tim closed his eyes, as though that would block out the scraping sound as the knife went back and forth… growing sharper and keener with each passing slide… would it split a hair, yet? He tried to wrench his thoughts away from the scene transpiring before him.

Stirk was too intent on his prey to notice the door to his apartment swinging noiselessly open, and closing, just as silently, a moment later. The cowled figure glanced quickly around the room, taking stock of the situation.

"Shan't be much longer, at all," Stirk was saying, as he a practiced hand over Tim's heart. "Ah, yes," he smiled. "That's coming along quite nicely. Quite nicely indeed. Why, I had thought it might take days before you were primed." He patted the boy's chest possessively. "I'd forgotten. You have a brave heart. A strong heart. But you are but a child. Your feelings run strong and close to the surface." Picking up the knife again, he deftly sliced the Kevlar vest from collarbone to navel. He then slashed the blade lightly across each shoulder. The vest fell away, leaving him standing in mask and tights. "Your fear, especially." Stirk smiled soothingly. "I wonder," he mused aloud. "With such a tender heart… might not the seasonings overpower the dish? Perhaps, I ought not to be quite so hasty." He cupped his hands around Tim's chin, pulling the boy's face forward until the wire digging into his wrists forced him to cry out. Stirk took away one hand, to reach into his pocket and extract a grubby handkerchief, which he jammed into Tim's mouth. "Can't have you crying out, now…" Stirk said affably. "Why, the neighbours might hear."

And then, a new voice spoke up. "Forget the neighbours," Batman ordered harshly. "Start worrying about _me_."


	7. Pulling the Curtain

Disclaimer: See previous chapters. "Not Going Down" lyrics written by Shaunna Bolton and Kevin Savigar. Recorded by Jo Dee Messina on her _Delicious Surprise_ CD. Copyright 2005 by Curb records. Jeannie's monologue from _Detective Comics #600_ by Sam Hamm.

A/N: Casa Puccini is modeled after Puccini's in Montreal, where my friends and I enjoyed many a pre-movie dinner during our college years.

A/N: Thanks, as always, to Char for encouragement and beta-reading.

_Inside of me is the only_

_Highway that leads to a true freedom_

_Holding out its hand_

_I close my eyes and it's all right_

_The sun will shine on a new horizon_

_Just around the bend_

_Days like these bring out the strength in me_

_So I can face my reflection and say…_

_Been burned by the fire_

_Been stuck under water_

_Strung up on a wire_

_And still the world goes around_

_Been tossed like a free throw_

_Knocked out when the wind blows_

_Pull the curtain on the hurtin'_

'_Cause I'm NOT GOING DOWN_

**Chapter 7: Pulling the Curtain**

At Batman's challenge, Cornelius Stirk whirled about. The masked figure could hear Robin's laboured breathing and muffled protests as the youth tried to dispose of the gag jammed into his mouth. The room smelled of damp, mildew, sweat, and other, more foul odours that had, over the years, bonded with walls and floor so that no disinfectant would ever purge the stink entirely.

"Ah…" Stirk crooned softly. "The two Masters of Fear meet again."

"What?" Batman gritted.

"We both seek a similar purpose, Sir," Stirk said. "We both wish to provoke fear in others. That is how we both have survived as long as we have. It's a perfectly sane, perfectly rational desire, Batman. Surely you agree that there's no taint of madness in such a goal?" Almost absently, Stirk pulled a pendant out of his pocket and let it swing slowly before him, as steadily as a metronome. Batman could hear the faint clinking as the crystal swung back and forth on its chain. Robin's muted grunts took on a new urgency as Stirk stepped closer.

"Don't even go there," Batman warned, advancing a step toward him.

"Why not?" Stirk demanded. "Do you… ahem… _fear_ that I might be right?" His voice turned soothing. "I need to retain my sanity, and to do so for any length of time, I must keep to a strict… well… call it diet, shall we? Although I would it were otherwise, I do as I must, for the greater good. This is sane. This is rational. In order for you, Batman, to function as you do, you must instil fear in your prey as well. I'm certain you take no pleasure in so doing, but to achieve your aim… you too do as you must. Equally sane. Equally rational."

Batman paused in his approach, indecisive, his weight still shifting in anticipation of his next step.

"So, Batman," Stirk whispered as he took a step toward the costumed vigilante, "are we truly so…dissimilar?"

Stirk's breath, hot and stinking of rancid meat, assaulted Batman's nostrils, breaking the spell. As the little man lurched forward, Batman threw himself to the left, diving out of reach of the blade in his opponent's hand. He could hear Stirk scrabbling behind him and immediately flipped onto his back, delivering a powerful kick to Stirk's mid-section. There was a satisfying thud as his opponent's back hit the wall. Then… heavy rubber-soled boots, half-scrambling, half-sliding on the wooden floor, and the reverberation of metal sliding and banging against metal.

"Batman," Stirk wheedled, "Surely you wouldn't harm me. Why, we should be friends!"

He felt it then. A tug on his mind, firm and assured, not even considering the possibility of defeat. And if he'd been meeting Stirk's gaze, Batman had no doubt that he would, in short order, find himself entirely at his assailant's mercy. But, knowing his adversary, Batman had taken a precaution before entering his enemy's lair.

_Careful. Time it right. Don't tip your hand too soon._ Placing a hand to his temple, he shook his head, as if to clear it, turning his face away from Stirk as he did so. "Keep back," he urged, allowing a faint hint of nervousness to creep into his voice.

Stirk picked up on that immediately. Batman could hear him advance another step, his gait more self-assured than it had been. "Such manners, Sir. Surely you've been taught better."

Batman froze. The voice the words, the intonation… _It's a trick. You know whom it is you're facing. You know how he operates._ But it sounded exactly like… _It isn't. It can't be. You know it can't be._ A patch of air before him felt warmer than the rest of the room did, and he could smell something faintly acrid.

"Come now, Sir. Look at me when I'm speaking to you."

Automatically, his face turned in the direction of the voice.

"Much better," the voice turned silky with triumph and the warm air suddenly seemed to be several inches higher. "Much…"

Without warning, Batman crouched low, and then, like a tightly coiled spring suddenly released, sprang upward, kicking out at a 120-degree angle, and connecting exactly where he knew Stirk's chin had to be. He heard the clatter as whatever Stirk had been holding hit the floor, but paid it no heed as he leaped atop his opponent, and rolled the smaller man onto his belly. He fumbled in his belt for the plastic handcuffs, which he fastened expertly around his captive's wrists. Batman hesitated for a moment to get his bearings, listening intently for the sound of Robin's breathing. Once he heard it, he homed in on it.

"Robin? Are you alright?"

Immediately, muffled cries reached his ears.

"Here. Easy," he said as he fumbled for where the boy's face had to be and pulled a wad of fabric out of his mouth. "You okay?"

Robin retched and spat, trying to get the taste of the gag out of his mouth. "Y-yeah," he said finally. "What about you?"

"I'm… fine," Batman said. He would be, at any rate. He thought for a moment, then picked his way over to where Stirk lay, and shoved the handkerchief into the prone man's own mouth. Stirk squirmed in protest, as Robin vocalized his own disgust.

Batman turned away. Extending an arm before him, he groped for the wall.

"Batman? What's wrong?" Tim sounded nervous. Not panicked, just concerned. As was totally appropriate to the circumstances.

"Nothing," he said reassuringly. "I know Stirk can't see me. Could anybody from outside?"

"What?" Now Robin was scared. Batman chuckled.

"Relax. I covered the cowl lenses with moleskin before I came into the room," he explained. "I knew Stirk was going to try hypnosis on me if he got the chance, either by twirling something in front of me, or by using his psi power to make me think I was looking at somebody I could trust. If nobody can see my face from where I'm standing, I'll peel the stuff off now." He wrinkled his nose. Although the room didn't feel any warmer, it was starting to smell like a bonfire.

"You're clear."

Dick rolled up the cowl and deftly removed the fabric from the eyepieces, replacing the cowl when he was done. The burning smell was coming from the hot electric coil, which had fallen to the wooden floor. The coil hadn't had time to do more than scorch its impression into the floorboards. Dick unplugged it. "Okay, let's get you out of this thing," he said, working one end of the wire around Robin's left wrist free.

"You mean, you took Stirk on… blind?"

"I stuck my head in here long enough to take note of the layout of the room before ducking back into the corridor to put on the moleskin. It was a risk," Batman admitted. "But it was a calculated risk. And it paid off."

"Yeah," Robin agreed. The wire loosened and he slid his wrist out, as Batman went to work on his other side. "But he still got to you."

"A little. I didn't realize he could also delude you into hearing the voice of someone you trusted. That threw me."

"You alright?" Robin demanded again, as Batman bent down to attend to his ankles.

"I will be." Once Tim was free, Dick spoke into his comlink, instructing Oracle to tip off GCPD anonymously about Cornelius Stirk's whereabouts. "Hang on." He dashed into what appeared to be a bedroom, rummaged through a drawer, and emerged with a wrinkled, but clean black T-shirt. "Your vest's a write-off. Put this on until you're back in the Redbird."

Tim accepted the garment gingerly. "Thanks. I guess," he said. Dick had no trouble understanding his reluctance to take anything from the man who had just put him through that ordeal. The necessity of leaving the scene before the police arrived won the younger boy over.

"So," Tim said as the two headed for the fire escape at the rear, "is there some technique I should know about to fight him off, if there's a next time? I mean, did Raven teach you, or something?"

Dick hesitated. "She did teach me a few things," he said finally, "but in this case, Stirk just sounded like somebody he couldn't possibly have been. All I did was keep reminding myself about that… accept that it couldn't be… who it sounded like… because…" he closed his eyes as though that could somehow steady his voice, "because the funeral is tomorrow."

But, damn. For one glorious moment, he'd half-believed it had been Alfred's voice.

* * *

Casa Puccini was located almost at the halfway point between GCPD headquarters and the Gotham City Courthouse, making it a preferred lunch spot for police and lawyers alike. Its generous portions and all-you-can-eat bread bar more than made up for the slightly higher-than-average cost of a meal. 

Mike Akins sat at one of the tables, idly arranging his loose change on the blue-and-white chequered tablecloth, as though setting up a game. He'd scheduled an after-work meeting with Karl May, and the current district attorney was ten minutes late.

"Sir!"

Akins looked up to see the MCU's second shift commander, Lieutenant David Cornwell waving a greeting at him.

"Cornwell," Akins forced himself to smile back. "Here by yourself, tonight?"

"Sarge'll be joining me in a bit," Cornwell replied. "I've been scheduling time to get to know my people, one-on-one. And," he glanced away, "I know Sarge wanted my job in the first place. I just figured…"

"Has he been giving you any trouble, Lieutenant?"

Cornwell shook his head emphatically. "Not at all, Sir. His performance has been exemplary. But, just in case, I'd rather clear the air now then face a problem down the road."

Akins started to respond, when a deep booming voice called out "Mike!" The police commissioner turned with relief.

"Afternoon, Karl. I was concerned you weren't going to make it." He turned to Cornwell. "If you'll excuse us, Lieutenant?"

Cornwell nodded easily and headed for the bread bar. It featured several different sorts of bread and plain and seasoned butters. Diners made their selections and toasted their choice on an open grill. This feature alone had made Casa Puccini a popular fixture in the neighbourhood.

"Sorry, Mike," Karl said as he took his seat. "We've had a busy few days of it, what with all of the excitement."

Akins nodded. "How does it look?"

May busied himself with one of the menus that their server had dropped unobtrusively onto their table. "By 'it', I would assume you mean the number one news story of the week," he said. "Have you tried the veal tortellini?"

"I haven't been here before. Any good? And, yes." Akins opened his own menu.

"Judge Craig recommends it, but I haven't tried it myself." May cleared his throat. "Getting on to the business end of things," he continued, "it's going to take time, and plenty of it. There's a _lot_ of red tape to cut through."

Akins grunted. "So, it would come to trial… when? Some time in the new year?"

"Now, you're being optimistic," May chuckled. "I've just today sent off a petition to the UN for the right to try him under our jurisdiction. Considering the number of other items currently on their agenda, I'd guess it would take a couple of months before the topic even comes up for discussion. Then, of course, the issue will be debated back and forth before it's denied--"

"Denied?" Akins asked sharply.

"Initially, yes. We're effectively asking them to waive diplomatic immunity. That's not something they'll undertake lightly. Not with the kind of precedent we're about to set. When you get right down to it, virtually every JLA member can theoretically be charged with assault, property damage, obstruction of justice--"

"Murder?"

"Believe me, the whole fiasco with Wonder Woman is the single strongest point in our favor," May stated. "It's probably the only reason the UN council is even willing to hear our petition in the first place, but they're still going to worry about pushing that door open any wider." He shook his head. "No, Mike. They'll deny it the first time, that's a given. Then we'll file an appeal, and they'll debate _that_ for a spell. The earliest that this is likely to get a trial _date_ would be a year and a half. And it could drag on longer."

"May I take your orders?" A waiter materialized at May's shoulder. May took the tortellini. Akins went for the linguine al pesto. The two men got up to go to the bread bar. Akins noted that Cornwell already returning from a second trip. Or, perhaps a third--he hadn't been paying attention. Sarge still hadn't shown up.

As the two men approached, Cornwell's eyes widened. "Down! Now!" The lieutenant shouted, launching himself at them. At that instant, a gunshot blasted from the street outside the restaurant, and the plate-glass window behind Akins and May shattered.

To Akins, everything seemed to happen in slow-motion. He dropped to his knees, and dove under one of the tables. May froze. Cornwell tackled the DA, pushing him to the ground, and shielding the large man's body with his own as the crown of the officer's head erupted in a flood of red… then time sped up to normal as Cornwell slumped over the DA, his weight holding the petrified man down.

"Someone call an ambulance," Akins shouted as he crawled the few feet over to where his lieutenant lay bleeding. He told himself that it was probably just a graze. Scalp wounds bled a lot, everybody knew that. As long as the EMTs could get the bleeding under control, Cornwell would be fine. Akins told himself that, and he _kept_ telling himself that, until he realized that a good part of his shift commander's skull seemed to have been shorn off by the force of the bullet's entry, and that the lieutenant did not seem to be moving… or breathing.

* * *

_From the Gotham Herald, the next morning:_

Headlines:

'Officer slain in drive-by shooting'

'23rd murder victim since Batman's arrest'

'Can Akins restore order?'

30 Per cent increase in vandalism claims this month: Grand Eastern CEO states

Inside:

'Officers attempting to cope with crime-wave'-- Page 3

'Was The Batman more essential than we knew?'--Page 3

'Akins rejected JLA-member's offer to help'--Page 3

'DA's office petitions UN for right to try Batman'--Page 14

'Was May the Target?'--Page 15

'Wayne's competency hearing today', -- page 16

'Funeral for Alfred Pennyworth to take place today', --page 16

* * *

Dick Grayson hated writing speeches. And, media relations success notwithstanding, he wasn't overly fond of giving them, either. This was one situation, however, where he truly had no choice in the matter. He would have deferred Alfred's eulogy to anyone else, except that this time, there really wasn't anybody else. _Bruce should be here. Bruce should be…_ Dick shook his head. It had been years before Bruce had been able to bring up _Jason's_ name in conversation. Expecting Bruce to be able to stand up and speak about Alfred, even were such a thing feasible… it would be correct. It would be proper. Had it been anybody other than Alfred being interred today, then Alfred himself would have reminded Bruce of what was expected. But forcing Bruce to fulfill this duty would have been one more cruelty that, propriety aside, Dick was glad his mentor was being spared. 

It wasn't as though there was any other choice. With Bruce out of commission, the task fell to Dick as the person next-best-qualified to speak. Tim couldn't. As well as he had come to know Alfred over the last four years, Tim had not had the experience of growing up under the elderly man's influence. And Dick wouldn't, couldn't place that kind of burden on the shoulders of a teenaged boy, who had already buried a parent, a girlfriend, and a classmate, only a year or so ago. Barbara knew Alfred well, but it wasn't her place either. If it couldn't be Bruce, it had to be him. Dick realized. There simply wasn't an alternative. Somehow, that steadied him. If he couldn't delegate, then he would have to perform the eulogy and perform it well.

Dick looked at the people who had followed the hearse to the Wayne Family Cemetery, and who now gathered around the open grave. Alfred had no surviving relatives, at least none that he had ever mentioned. At Dick's urging, Barbara had listed his obituary in the London dailies. If anyone from Alfred's past had seen the notices and flown in for the funeral, they hadn't approached to introduce themselves. Most of the people surrounding him now were the people that _he_, and to a certain extent, Bruce, were close to. Tim was standing beside him, pale and nervous. He claimed it was only the after-effect of his encounter with Stirk. Dick wasn't going to call him on it. Barbara was on Dick's other side, flanked by her father. Cass stood alone, a few paces behind Tim. Dick wondered idly whether this was her first funeral. He'd been out of commission when Stephanie Brown and Jack Drake had been interred, and he'd never asked whether she had been there. It wasn't important, in any case. You were always too young for your first, and the rest didn't get any easier.

The other faces were also familiar. Although Gordon had tried to keep the funeral private, the costumed crowd had its own grapevine. Babs said that she hadn't passed the word on, and Dick believed her. Still, those who were gathered to pay their respects included Titans, past and present, Outsiders, and former Justice-leaguers, both in and out of costume. Lucius Fox, and, Dick noted with some surprise, Renee Montoya was present as well. There were two other people with her: a young Hispanic woman, whose short dark hair fell back from her forehead in a widow's peak, and a solidly-built African-American with a goatee and moustache. Despite his civilian attire, Dick was fairly sure that the man was also police. He wasn't certain about the woman, but he didn't think so.

There were also a few reporters and photographers keeping to the rear of the crowd. Dick's eyes narrowed. He hadn't invited them. He relaxed slightly when he saw that Lois Lane and Clark Kent stood among them. Actually, they were standing in front of them, discreetly blocking the others from approaching too closely. As their eyes met, Clark nodded slightly, and gave an encouraging nod. Dick nodded back, feeling a momentary swell of gratitude, as the minister began to speak.

Dick heard without hearing. He wondered why he still couldn't cry. _He's really gone_, he thought to himself. _That's what this is all about. That's why you're here. Alfred is in that box. And that box is going into the ground. And you'll never see him again. He's not going to turn up unannounced with a home-cooked breakfast and shake his head over the leftover Chinese takeout you were about_ _to dig into. He's not going to smooth things over when you and Bruce get into one of your stupid arguments--and face it, Grayson, most of them _are_ stupid, and would end a lot sooner if _you_ decided once in a while, that it isn't so blasted important for you to be right! Alfred is… dead. Gone. Passed on. All those times when you broke off contact with him because you were afraid that if you called the manor, Bruce would pick up the phone… all those times he'd ask you to stop by and you didn't because you were afraid of another scene, or you were working on a case, or you were afraid of being lectured, or afraid that he _wouldn't_ lecture you, even though you both knew you deserved it… it looks like you can stop worrying, now. You're never going to have to worry about anything like that again. _

_Did Alfred ever wonder, when you stormed off in a huff, whether _he _had done something to offend you? Did he ever wonder if you hated him? After all, during that year and a half that you didn't speak to Bruce, did you ever even drop Alfred a note, a birthday card, anything? You always figured there'd be time for that down the road, didn't you?_

He realized that the minister had finished and was looking at him. Dick nodded, swallowed, and took a step forward. He delivered the eulogy that he had written two nights earlier, knowing that it wasn't doing Alfred justice, knowing that no words could, and knowing that if Alfred were standing next to him right now, he'd be telling his surrogate grandson to stop bothering about him and start figuring out a way to help Bruce. He was positive that despite his hours of preparation and half-finished drafts, it sounded as though he was reciting something dashed off five minutes before the funeral, until he saw Anissa blinking rapidly. Unconsciously, she moved closer to Roy, who wrapped an arm about her shoulders. Dick felt a slight pressure on his hand, and looked down to see Barbara holding it firmly. He squeezed back. Tears were pouring down the red-haired woman's cheeks. _This is one time where crying isn't just okay, it's expected_, Dick told himself. Then, why couldn't he?

He concluded the speech, and watched as the coffin dropped slowly into the open gravesite. As the undertakers began shovelling earth, the knot of reporters started to move forward. Dick groaned mentally, as he steadied himself, bracing for the inevitable barrage of flashbulbs and questions. To his surprise, Montoya and the man standing next to her turned as one, and Dick caught the glint of badges as they faced down the press. Uncertainly, the paparazzi fell back, mumbling.

"This is neither the time nor the place for you people to do anything other than pay your respects," the man's basso profundo rang out clearly. The faint squelching of leather-soled shoes running through damp grass made Dick turn his head, to see Tim sprinting the half-mile back to the manor. He turned as if to follow, then looked down at Barbara. She nodded understanding, and released his hand. Dick started walking briskly in the direction in which the youth had gone, but made no effort to catch up to him.

* * *

When he entered the manor, there was no sign of Tim. Hesitantly, Dick made his way up the stairs. The door to Alfred's bedroom was ajar. He pushed it open wider. Tim was sitting on the bed, looking dully at a portrait on Alfred's dresser. Dick recognized it; it had been taken shortly after Bruce had been granted legal custody over him. He'd never known that Alfred had kept that photo, though it really shouldn't have surprised him. Many people did, after all, have pictures of their loved ones out in plain view. "Hey," Dick said, sitting down next to him. 

Tim didn't look at him, but as the mattress sagged when Dick's weight came down on it, Tim edged slightly closer to him. "H-hey," he echoed.

"They'll be coming back here in a few minutes," Dick said quietly. "You don't have to mingle." He glanced at the picture. "I was nine when Alfred snapped that one," he ventured after a few minutes.

"He… he'll come back. I know it."

"Tim," Dick started to say.

"Every time we think Joker's gone, he comes back. Almost two years ago, I thought I killed a man. He survived. We… we thought Jason was dead. Bruce buried him! And he turned up again." He looked at Dick. "So, don't you see?" His voice was earnest. "Alfred _has_ to come back, too. Right?"

Dick slid an arm around the younger man, pulling him closer. "I'm sorry, Tim."

"_Don't say that!_" Tim shouted as the tears that had been welling up finally overflowed. He would have leaped up from the bed, but Dick's grip was firm. "He's got to come back. I need him. Bruce needs him. We..." He tore himself out of Dick's grip and threw himself facedown onto the eiderdown quilt. "Why don't the right people come back?" His voice was muffled. "Black Mask falls off a building, and he's fine." Dick stretched a hand out and rested it on Tim's shoulder. "Riddler gets to dunk in a Lazarus pit! But my mom… my dad…" He choked, taking up handfuls of the coverlet. "Stephanie… Alfred. Why are the ones who _should_ come back the ones who really go? Why?" And whatever else he had been about to say was lost in his sobs.

"I know," Dick whispered hoarsely, as he stroked Tim's back. "I need him too," his voice broke. "But he _is_ gone," he said, "and he's _not_ coming back. I am so, so sorry." And finally, he felt his own tears course down his cheeks.

Tim rolled onto his back, sat up, and lolled his head against Dick's shoulder. Dick hugged him. "It's not fair," Tim whispered.

"I know," Dick managed to choke out. "I know."

* * *

Danziger looked the battery-operated shaver over carefully. "It's probably safe," he hedged, "but in Batman's hands..." 

"Restraints won't be necessary," Renee said quietly, almost pleading. "I-I'll handle it, or let one of the nurses. He won't touch it, himself. Come on, Gil, it's enough."

Danziger considered. When he reluctantly nodded, Renee let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding, and thanked him profusely before going in.

As soon as Renee entered Bruce's room, she knew that something was wrong. In one hand, she held the shaver that Dick had given her before she and Cris had left the manor. In her other hand was a book of logic problems. Pens, she thought ironically, were deemed too dangerous to allow within Batman's reach. But perhaps, they could work through the book verbally. Maybe he'd find the puzzles more interesting, Renee thought without malice, than her stories about growing up on Spanish Van Buren, as that area of Otisburg was commonly referred. She'd been inflicting her childhood on him for nearly a week, now, and he had to be getting sick of hearing about it.

"Hi," she said, taking her seat, knowing that he wouldn't respond to her greeting, any more than he had for the last five days. To her surprise, he turned his face toward her.

"Detective Montoya."

Well, that was something. She held up the shaver. "I thought if you wanted to, I…" She thought about what she was offering. It had to be humiliating for a man like Wayne to be this completely at the mercy of his… his captors. And that included _her_ as well, she realized with a pang. She looked away. "I'm sorry," she said miserably. "My being here. It's just making things worse, isn't it?"

She didn't expect a reply. He surprised her. "Worse." It was a statement, not a question, but his eyebrows lifted inquiringly.

Renee drew a deep breath. "My coming here," she said, "I'm wondering if maybe I'm just being selfish. It's…" Her face had to be beet-red, she was sure. "You'll think it sounds stupid. It's going to make me sound like Dunning. He was…"

"Dressing boys in Robin costumes and murdering them. I remember."

"That's right. But his motive actually made sense to me. This," she forced a smile. "You're going to laugh."

"Doubtful."

"Fine. Here goes. I was about seventeen when the signal went up for the first time. And it meant something to me. I didn't know if you were real or not, but somehow, seeing that big spotlight up there, it made me feel that there was somebody out there, keeping an eye on things. And I wanted to do that, too." Her blush grew deeper. "Dunning killed because he wanted to 'enter your world'—I think that's how he phrased it. As if meeting you would somehow, I don't know…validate him, in some way?" She should have kept her big mouth shut. Of course, of all the subjects that she'd broached over the last few days, this had to be the one to capture his attention. "The crazy thing is, I understood that. Because ever since I saw that signal go up, I… I used to dream about doing what you did. Not running around in a costume, but making a difference, even if it meant putting my life on the line out there. Look, you know what Gotham was like when you started. Seeing that light up there, and seeing the cops who used to come into Poppa's store demanding 'insurance money' suddenly stop coming round." She smiled, remembering. "The next time we saw them was on the six o'clock news when they turned themselves in. I don't know what you did to spook them, and I'm not sure I want to, but thanks.

"When I was fresh out of the academy," she continued, "Central took me right away. I remember, my first night, just going up on the roof and looking at that floodlight. And thinking to myself that I really was a part of… it." She laughed. Spoken aloud, the words sounded idiotic. "Don't ask me what 'it' was. I still don't know if I can really explain it."

Batman looked away. Probably, Renee imagined, as embarrassed as she was. "Of course," she continued, "my second night, I was in Commissioner Gordon's office when I heard a noise at the window… and I almost shot you."

"No." He corrected. "You almost fired your weapon."

Renee blinked. Was he… teasing her? Or, was he just stating a fact? She shook her head. "I spent years looking up at that symbol. And it made me want to help…" _You_, she wanted to add, but didn't. "So," she continued, "how come whenever we're face to face, I always seem to be shooting at you, arresting you, or… or browbeating your bodyguards? Don't answer that," she added. "I guess, maybe, I've been coming here because it makes _me_ feel like I'm doing something. But if all I'm doing is… reminding you that you're here because I brought you in… then my visits are only making things worse." She broke off, realizing that his hand was covering her wrist.

"Detective Montoya," he said slowly, "If you hadn't arrived on the scene the other night, what _would_ have happened?"

"What?"

"Speculate, Detective. My… allies were no longer in Gotham. I was seriously injured and slipping into shock. If you hadn't arrived when you did, what would have happened?"

"Well…"

Seeing that she wasn't about to continue, he did. "The injuries that I sustained might have been permanent. Or fatal. Had any of my… enemies happened upon me in that condition, I would have been an easy target. Or, I could have encountered some of your fellow officers who might have had less inclination to… listen to my warnings about my costume's defences."

Renee's eyes widened as she considered the implications. "I… that hadn't occurred to me," she admitted. "So, you don't mind my coming down here, then."

Mind? "No."

She sighed. "I thought… when I came in, you seemed upset."

His expression turned sombre as he withdrew his hand. "That had nothing to do with you."

She waited. "I won't pry if you don't want me to," she said after a while.

"The hearing," he said finally, "was this morning. A motion to postpone," he continued, speaking in a monotone, "was tabled. And granted. My presence at those proceedings," he added, "was not deemed necessary."

Renee's eyes widened. "Oh," she managed. "Well that stinks. But, I mean, they couldn't have taken you out of this room to attend in any case, right?"

He shook his head. "I'd thought it would take place in here. It… doesn't really matter, I know. I told my lawyer to use her own best judgment, and I'm sure that's what she did." The corners of his mouth lifted in an ironic half-smile. "Doubtless, she thought that attending the hearing might prove unduly stressful, for me."

His voice was dispassionate. Had he been wearing the cowl, its lenses would have concealed the pain in his eyes, and Renee might have been taken in.

"But the situation still stinks," Renee finished. She could pretend that she hadn't seen that pain. He'd had enough secrets exposed over the last few days. She could keep this one for him.

"Yes."

* * *

_Three days later_

"…The house with the green door is east of the Johnson residence," Renee read aloud, "and west of the household with the Chevy Lumina in the driveway." She waited for Bruce to nod before going on to the next clue provided for the logic puzzle. "Neither the Martins nor the family living in the house with the blue door, which is not the westernmost on the block, drive the Ford Taurus." As she finished the sentence, she turned, suddenly aware of another's presence in the room. A young man in the nondescript green scrubs that nurses and orderlies both seemed to wear stood patiently holding a quart-sized mason jar.

"I just wanted to advise you, Sir," he said looking at Bruce, "that someone dropped off some applesauce for you. It'll be in the fridge at the nurse's station. If you want it, just ask for it."

Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Do you know who sent it?"

The man tugged at the small folded piece of paper through which somebody had punched two holes. A string was threaded through the holes and attached to the neck of the bottle. "Card says, 'Thank-you. Romy Chandler,'" he read.

"Romy?" Montoya exclaimed. She looked at Bruce. "But she… I mean, after you broke her nose…"

Bruce looked stunned. "It is… unexpected," he admitted. "Thank-you," he added to the man in scrubs, who smiled and withdrew. "There was something with which I was able to help her last week. I suppose she felt the need to make this gesture. Unnecessary," he added.

"But appreciated, anyway?" Renee asked shrewdly.

Bruce didn't answer.

* * *

_Six nights later_

Gordon had been sitting by the bed, for the better part of the last ninety minutes, hoping that Wayne would awaken before visiting hours officially ended.

"We're still trying to pinpoint the proper dosages for his medications," the nurse had explained apologetically. And, Gordon reflected, it couldn't help that Bruce's circadian rhythms almost _had_ to be abnormal to begin with, if he was operating as Batman by night, and appearing as Bruce Wayne by day. Medical interns pulling seventy-hour shifts probably had more regular sleep patterns.

A low moan drew his attention back to the bed. "Bruce?" He asked.

The man in the bed cried out again. "No… go away…" he mumbled in his slumber. "Don't…"

"_Don't dawdle, Brucie. It's getting late."_

_The little boy turns to his mother in protest. "I'm not tired. 'Sides, there's no school tomorrow."_

"_Leave the boy be, Martha," his father says. "He's still keyed up from the film." He bends down to Bruce's eye level. "I'll tell you what. Pick up the pace, and if we get back to the car fast enough, we can stop off for ice cream."_

"_Sundaes?"_

_His mother shakes her head, frowning. "Cones."_

_Bruce's face falls. "Awww!"_

_Thomas Wayne looks at his wife. "Thomas," she says sharply, "No."_

"_Single-scoop, Martha," he coaxes. "What would it hurt?"_

_Mother frowns, but nods slowly. _

"_Alright!" He leaps forward. A hand holds him back._

"_Bruce, wait. We can take a shortcut." He sees where his father is pointing and, unhesitatingly turns. As one, the boy and his parents stride into the alley…_

…_It's dark, extremely dark. Bruce can't see his hand before his face. "Mother? Father?"_

"_Master Bruce!" That's Alfred's voice. But what's he doing here? He's supposed to be at home. This is all wrong. Where are his parents?_

"_Mother? FATHER! Where are you?"_

_As if an overhead lamp had been suddenly switched on, he sees two figures lying in a circle of light, framed by blood and pearls. Overcome by a horror that is no less intense than it has been the countless other times that he has witnessed some variation of this scene, he drops to his knees, before their prone forms. "No," he whispers._

"_Bruce. Bruce! Oh, you poor dear. Come." A woman's voice, sweet and sorrowing. He knows her, but… "Come away from here," she repeats, pulling him away from the bodies, from which blood continues to flow._

_Wait. If it's flowing, then… "They're still alive, Dr. Leslie! You can help them!" He tries to twist away from the hand holding the stethoscope. He's fine. But his parents…_

"_I can't, Bruce. I'm sorry."_

"_What do you mean can't? You're a doctor! Why not?"_

"_I have to teach you a lesson."_

_What? Bruce breaks free of Leslie's grasp and runs back to the bodies. That's when he realizes that the woman's hair is blonde, not brown. And she's young, so much younger than his mother. She is bleeding from numerous injuries, in addition to the single gunshot wound in her chest. And the man… he can barely recognize his features, partially concealed as they are by the chunk of cement crushing in part of his face. "Alfred! Noooo!" He turns back. "Leslie, you have to help them!"_

"_Perhaps this will make you think twice about putting on a mask, Bruce. I can't be a party to this madness. I have to do something, anything, to end it."_

"_You're a menace," a new voice chimes in. Akins is suddenly standing next to Leslie, glowering down at him. "Everything you try to do blows up in your face, and it's the innocents who pay the price." _

_Suddenly, Bruce realizes that there are others in the alley, lying shockingly still. Some wear police blues. Some are in business suits, or T-shirts and jeans. A blond man wearing a bat-suit, _sans _cowl his neck twisted at an odd angle. A young woman, also blond, bends over him crying. She looks at Bruce and her eyes are cold. "You killed him," Jeannie says. "You let him die to save your own miserable neck… I thought we were alike. I trusted you... Burn in Hell." Jason. Wearing the shredded remains of the Robin costume, and impossibly, there is a second, older Jason as Bruce saw him last only two weeks ago. Other scenes unfold before him. He sees himself punch Dick shortly after Jason's funeral--when the one whom he truly wished to hurt was himself. He rails at Alfred, ordering him to mind his own business, when in fact Bruce's welfare _is_ his business. Bruce cringes as he sees himself again betray Tim's secret to Stephanie Brown. He'd used Stephanie, as he, in fact, used everyone around him when necessary, to further his own goals, treating her as though she were no more than a chess piece. She deserved better. As did the others lying dead before him. What kind of monster is he?_

"_We're both monsters, now," Leslie says. Bruce stares at the woman he thought was his friend. What she's saying makes no sense. She would let two people die… to prove a point? It's evil… insane… Leslie walks toward him, arms outstretched, hands stiffening into sharp talons. "Don't you understand, Bruce?" She hisses, as tears flow copiously from her eyes. "I want to help. Like you." She smiles then, a horrid caricature of a smile, and suddenly Bruce remembers somebody else who was willing to commit an atrocity, simply to prove a point._

"_NO! Go away! Get away from me! Go!" _

"No! Go away! Go Away! Go AWAY! AWAY!"

Gordon leaned forward alarmed. Next to him, one of the officers on duty had his finger down on the nurses' call-button.

"GO AWAY!" Bruce repeated, angrily, in his sleep, as he battled the bedclothes.

"Fuller," the officer called to one of the two men guarding the door, "get someone in here before he hurts himself." Fuller opened the door, and Gordon could hear him speaking quietly to somebody in the corridor outside. Probably medical staff, he thought. Media criticism and a crime wave that showed little sign of abating had finally prompted Akins to dispense with the dozen guards who had previously taken up posts in the outside corridor.

Bruce's thrashing did not subside. _If he manages to pull that leg loose…_ Gordon thought to himself. He bent closer. "Bruce?" He whispered.

"GET OUT OF HERE!"

"Wake up," Gordon said urgently. "You're having a bad dream. Easy. Easy now." He placed a hand on Bruce's forearm. "I'm here."

"**GO AWAY**!"

Bruce never telegraphed the punch that caught Jim Gordon squarely in the jaw, slamming him back into the chair, which toppled over sideways. Jim landed heavily on his side, feeling a near-blinding pain in his shoulder as he did. _Stupid_, he told himself, as the door to the room burst open and the nurse in the doorway took in the scene. _"You're supposed to know better than to approach somebody with those kinds of reflexes when he's not in control…_"

And the room was suddenly overflowing with people in surgical scrubs. Somebody was bending over him, helping him to sit up, and gently probing his arm. Gordon could see somebody else moving away from the bed, carefully holding an empty syringe. He winced. He heard someone talking over him. No, somebody was addressing him. "Sir? We're going to take you down to x-ray to see about that arm and shoulder of yours."

Gordon nodded. This was the wrong time to argue about the wheelchair. The last thing he saw before they wheeled him out was an orderly putting arm restraints on a now-quiet Bruce.

* * *

Romy was having a good night off. In point of fact, for over a week, she'd felt more relaxed than she had in a long time. It wasn't just knowing the truth about Nate's death, although that was part of it. It was that, the more she thought about it, the more she realized that she'd been holding on too tightly to too much: her grief over Nate's passing, her guilt at obeying his orders to vacate the building before the bomb went off, her hatred of Batman. She could admit, now, that she'd been clinging to that last one as though letting go would have been a betrayal of Nate, of her academy instructor, of the other officers killed during the mob war. Ironically, she had begun to heal and move on months ago, after Batman had returned her weapon to her. But she hadn't wanted to admit it. What was it they said about keeping a grudge being like letting somebody you didn't like live rent-free in your head? 

She reached into her handbag again, feeling the smoothness of the quarter-pint jelly jar with its tightly-fitting lid and ring. She smiled to herself. She still didn't like him… but he'd helped her. And she owed him. She'd just drop this off at the nurse's station, she thought to herself as she ascended in the elevator.

Pandemonium greeted her on the eighth floor. Medical personnel and officers raced along the corridor that led to and from Wayne's room. Hesitantly she started walking in that direction. The guard detail that had been outside the room was nowhere to be seen. The door was ajar. Peering inside, Romy saw a familiar person standing by Wayne's bed, barking orders.

"Run a tox test on him," Hardy directed. "I want to know why he stopped responding to the sedatives." His eye fell on a plastic bowl on the dinner tray. "That's not part of his standard meal," he said, pointing to it. "What is it?"

"Applesauce, Doctor Stearns," one of the nurses said. "There's a jar of it in the nurses' fridge."

Romy froze. Stearns? He'd told her his name was Elliot Hardy.

"Get it," Hardy/Stearns directed. "And just for the fun of it, someone check out the contents of the wastepaper baskets before custodial empties them."

Romy sensed a presence behind her, turned, and nearly stumbled into Marcus Driver. She grabbed his arm and pulled him back down the corridor and around the corner.

"Romy?" He asked. "What's gotten into you?"

Romy didn't answer right away. "What happened, Marcus?" She demanded. "Where is everybody?"

"You know what's going on out there," Marcus replied. "Commish decided Wayne didn't need the guard detail in the corridor. They're back on the streets. You okay?" He slid an arm around her waist.

"Never mind about me," she snapped. "What happened in there?"

Marcus sighed. "They're trying to answer that right now. All I know is that Batman had some kind of seizure or something. He knocked Gordon out cold. That guy, Stearns, the one acting like he's in charge thinks somebody might have tampered with Wayne's meds, in some way." He shook his head. "With all the security around here, I can't think how."

Romy smiled, commiserating. Then, the smile froze. Purposefully, she strode to the small kitchen alcove behind the nurses' station, Marcus on her heels. She opened the refrigerator door, and gasped. She'd been right, she realized in disbelief. There, on the top shelf, was the jar of applesauce, now two-thirds empty, that she'd given to Dr. Hardy. Or was it really Dr. Stearns? She reached for the jar, as someone opened the fridge door wider behind her.

"Excuse me," a nurse apologized, taking hold of the jar. "Doctor needed this."

Numbly, Romy closed the fridge behind her. So, he'd given away her gift, she thought, hurt. But then why had he reacted as though he hadn't known about it?

"Doctor!" She whirled. An orderly, who had dumped the contents of a nearby garbage pail onto the floor was waving a small foil card triumphantly aloft. Each plastic blister that had once contained a pill was now empty. As the orderly dashed toward Wayne's room, Romy started to shake.

Marcus seized hold of her shoulders. "Talk to me, Romy. Please. What's the matter?"

"Everything," she said dully. "I… I have to get out of here. Now." She tore herself free of Detective Driver's grasp, opened the door to the stairwell, and ran down the stairs. Was she too late? Would security… or worse, some of her fellow officers be waiting at the bottom? She had to make it out of the hospital unnoticed, she thought, trying and failing to calm her apprehensions. She had to get someplace where she could think calmly and determine whether things really were as bad as they looked. She thought for a moment.

Four floors down, she exited, dashed down the corridor to a second staircase, ran three flights up, and summoned an elevator, which she rode down to the main floor. Sitting in her car, she hugged herself, tightly, then fumbled in her purse and pulled out the unused Desoxyn card that Hardy had give her nearly two weeks ago. It could well have been a match for the one that the orderly had found in the trash. Again, she mentally replayed what Hardy had told her about Desoxyn in their earlier conversation:

_If the dosage is too high, it can also cause paranoia, hallucinations, panic states, assaultiveness…_

Tampering directly with medications was tricky. The meds were not supposed to be out of sight of the medical personnel distributing them. But, concealed in food, such as applesauce… She froze. Hardy had been wearing gloves when she'd give him the jar. And when he'd given her the Desoxyn. But _she _hadn't been! Her fingerprints were all over that jar! And…_no! He couldn't have…_ as though watching a film rewind and play forward slowly, she saw him reach with his left hand into his pocket to give her the sample card. She saw herself push it back to him, and watched him replace it on the same side. And then, _she saw his right hand reach down toward a different pocket to pull out the sample card a second time._ But, her fingerprints were on the first sample card. The card, she realized, that was, in all likelihood, the one that the orderly had just found in the waste bin. The meds could have been blended into the applesauce at any time. All Hardy had to do was hold on to the card, and dispose of it when he knew that somebody would be searching for it.

_Think calmly,_ she told herself. _So your fingerprints are on the jar. You made the applesauce, after all. And if you explain how you got your hands on that sample card, they'll believe you._ She pressed her hand against her eyes. No, they wouldn't. Her animosity toward Batman was well known. Given her lacklustre job performance of late, and her… _just own up to it, already, _erratic behaviour… She hadn't had anything to do with Wayne's attack. But who would believe her?

"Means, motive, and opportunity," she whispered, breaking the silence. "I've been set up." The panic that she'd been trying to suppress overwhelmed her. She had to talk to somebody … somebody who had also been framed, who might, at least be inclined to consider her version of events.

* * *

_Three hours later_

Renee Montoya looked up from her computer. "Romy?" She asked. "You're not scheduled for duty, tonight."

"I've got to talk to you, Renee. In private."

Montoya took in her colleague's agitation. "Cornwell's office should be vacant," she said hesitantly, feeling a bit ghoulish. The late shift commander's personal effects were still inside. Going in felt like an intrusion. Chandler, though, simply nodded, and followed her inside, shutting the door behind them.

The instant Renee flicked the light switch, Romy blurted out, "I'm in trouble." Then a moment later, _"He's_ in trouble."

The concerned expression on Montoya's face took on a note of anger. "What do you mean?" She demanded. Romy flinched. Renee drew a calming breath. "Tell me, Romy."

Romy did.

"…So it looks," she finished, "like I did it. They've got my prints. They know… Jesus, when I went up to his room the first time, I did everything but attack him physically… there are witnesses, for chrissake! You know how it looks… I had a grudge, I had the pills but I didn't… I wouldn't have…"

"Hey," Renee said softly, "easy. It wasn't that long ago someone planted _my_ gun at a murder scene, remember? I… okay, don't panic. There has to be a way to clear your name. If you didn't do it, then there has to be something…"

Romy shook her head bitterly. "Who's going to take the time? I'm the perfect suspect, why would they bother looking further afield?"

"They wouldn't. _I _would."

Both women turned as one to see a third figure in the room. Renee recovered first. "How long have you been standing there, 'Batman'?" She demanded, twisting the last word sarcastically.

"Long enough." The cowled figure took a step forward, expression grim.

Romy shrank back. "It wasn't me," she whispered.

Dick sighed mentally. The detective was nervous enough without him making things worse. "I know," he intoned.

Romy gaped at him, disbelieving.

"Detective Chandler," he said quietly, "if the person who set you up is the person I think it is, you can stop berating yourself. He's extremely good at finding people who'll act in his best interests, whether they know it or not..."

"Who is he?" Renee broke in.

Batman looked at her, then turned back to Romy. "Can you describe him?"

Romy drew a deep breath. "Male, middle thirties, height about 6'2 weight about 230. Red hair, grey eyes…" She broke off as Batman spun about abruptly. He no longer seemed to be paying attention.

"The docks?" He asked.

"What about them?" Romy replied, bewildered.

Batman ignored her. "Absolutely not," he stated emphatically, "you tell him to wait. I'll be there." He suddenly seemed to realize that he wasn't alone. "I'll contact you shortly, Batman out," he stated. He turned back to the two women.

"The man you're looking for is Doctor Thomas Elliot. He also calls himself 'Hush'. And you probably _don't_ have a file on him, yet." Batman focused his gaze on Romy. "Packing up and leaving would make things look worse," he stated.

"Well, what would you suggest?" Romy snapped. "Just sit here and wait to be arrested?"

He paused, considering. She was raising a valid point. "Go home," he said finally. "The tox test results probably won't be in until later. Then they'll have to cross-match the prints," he broke off as he realized that Romy was growing paler. _Wrong tactic. You're scaring her. _Blasted bat-suit had its disadvantages. "By the time they have enough evidence to proceed, they won't have a case against you," he said finally. "I'll see to that." At that moment, there was a knock on the door. The two women turned as one toward the sound.

"Renee?" Cris Allen's voice called. "Are you in there?"

Montoya hesitated. "Now what, Batm…" she broke off, realizing suddenly that she and Romy were alone in the room. Damn! Gordon was right; this was frustrating. She opened the door to admit her partner. "What's up?"

"Crime," Allen deadpanned. "Word is, there's something major going on down at the docks. Sawyer wants us out there." He glanced at Romy, taking in her agitated state. "Did I interrupt something?"

Montoya shook her head. "Romy?" She said. "It's going to work out. Go home. I'll call you later." She squeezed her colleague's arm, before walking off with Allen.

Alone, Romy considered her options. She could follow Renee's instructions, go home, and jump every time that she heard footsteps coming down the hallway. She could drive away from Gotham for a few days, except that Batman, whoever this version of him was, was right. It would look like she was running away. Which would not bode well. Still bemused, she headed out of the office.

"Chandler?" Maggie Sawyer approached her. "I thought you were off tonight."

"I was," Romy said, thinking quickly. "There was just something I needed to check int…"

Maggie wasn't paying attention. "Azeveda's partner's out sick. As long as you're here, we need more people at the docks, tonight. If you want to put in the overtime…"

More work, she thought. It sounded like exactly what the doctor ordered to take her mind off of things. "Sure," she agreed. "If things are that bad."

"They are," Maggie responded. "Get changed fast."

* * *

"You alright, Chandler?" Azevedo asked. 

Romy jumped. "Fine," she lied. "Just wondering when the party starts." Her temporary partner had filled her in on the way. Somebody had phoned in a tip that Black Mask, Batman, _and_ Robin were holed up in one of the warehouses that faced out onto the waterfront. That was weird. Batman had been at GCPD thirty minutes ago, and, from the half of he conversation that she'd overheard, it hadn't sounded like he'd had any plans to head for the docks until he'd gotten that call. So the tip had to have been phoned in before Batman had ever _gotten_ there. _Great. And just how am I supposed to tell anybody without admitting that I was talking to him?_ She glanced across the pier, spying Renee crouched behind another flat of crates. Montoya gave her a brief smile, and touched her finger to her lips. Romy nodded. She _wasn't_ supposed to tell anybody.

* * *

"Do you have a clear target?" Akins asked. 

McGrath, eyes on his rifle-scope, shook his head. "Nobody at the window, Sir."

"Keep me posted," the commissioner said, moving on.

He saw Simon Lippman standing unobtrusively behind the lines, clearly hoping to land a story for tomorrow's front page. Akins had more than half a mind to send the reporter packing, but Lippman was one of the few reporters whose writing did not currently reflect an anti-police bias. He couldn't afford to lose that, so he contented himself with an irritated frown.

"Sir!" Akins strode over in response.

"What is it, Burton?"

In response, the heavyset man pointed two buildings over. A shadowy figure, cape flapping behind him was approaching swiftly via the rooftops.

"Fire at will," Akins directed.

Silence greeted his order. He glowered. "Well?"

Burton shrugged. "I couldn't get a clear shot. Sorry, Sir," he said neutrally as Batman entered the warehouse via the side window.

Akins was about to respond when he noticed that Lippman suddenly seemed to be standing only a few feet away. "Well, try harder, next time!" He snapped.

He turned to one of the officers standing by a monitor display. "Did you get the greenlight on the video feeds from inside?"

"Actually, somebody from inside is broadcasting them _out_," Rutledge replied. "We've been getting them for about 5 minutes."

Akins grunted. His radio crackled to life. "Commissioner, there's been an incident at the hospital…" As Akins listened, his expression hardened.

"Sarge," he beckoned. "Have you seen Azevedo and Chandler?"

* * *

Robin knew his business, Batman reflected as he stumbled over his eighth unconscious mob enforcer. The kid was cutting a swath through all of Black Mask's henchmen--no mean feat for a seventeen-year-old. But then, he _did_ have the advantage of having been trained by the best: Bruce, Lady Shiva, Dick himself, and these days, Vic, Raven, and Kory. Maybe Robin wasn't a natural, as Dick had been, but he'd striven to overcome that shortcoming. And, Batman considered as he dashed past mook number nine, by and large, he'd succeeded. That still didn't excuse his running into the warehouse over Batman's explicit orders, however. 

Batman heard the thud of flesh and bone landing against plywood. From the impact, it was probably somebody weighing between 190 and 200 pounds. Not Robin, then, he thought, as he rounded the corner, and pushed open the door.

Black Mask rose unsteadily to his feet. "Looks like Batman trains some of his brats better than others," he said mockingly. "Don't tell me the girl was _supposed _to be cannon fodder."

Robin flung himself furiously at his wiry adversary. At the last instant, Black Mask stepped aside. Robin tried to stop short, but his momentum propelled him into the wall. Black Mask clamped a hand about the back of his neck and pulled him to the ground. As the young man struggled to rise, Black Mask straddled him, fastened his other hand about the vigilante's throat, and slowly leaned behind, forcing Robin's neck up and back.

"Let him alone!" Batman gritted, tossing a batarang. It sliced deeply into Black Mask's upper arm.

The crime lord gave a cry of pain, and his grip on Robin slackened slightly. Before he could regain it, a flying kick carried him clear of the youth, and Black Mask found himself lying on his back with Batman pinning him in a judo hold.

"Well, well," Black Mask chortled. "I must say this _is _a surprise. Of course, you do realize that I have you at a disadvantage."

Beneath the cowl, Batman raised an eyebrow. "How so?" He growled.

"Easy. You're a mass of conflict. You want to kill me," he said, "but if you do that, you'll betray everything that Batman stands for, but," his voice took on a sing-song intonation, "if you don't kill me, then you'll betray the memories of that blonde bat-wannabe, and the English bloke, won't you?"

"Shut up, Roman," Batman gritted. "Or you'll find out how much I can do to you and _still_ keep you alive!"

"Oh, puh-leeze!" Sionis mocked, breaking loose, "you're actually feeding me those lines? Seriously. Who writes your material?" He aimed a high kick at Batman. Batman crouched, and the foot passed harmlessly over his head. An R-shaped throwing knife thunked heavily into Black Mask's exposed thigh, and the mob boss staggered and landed heavily on one knee.

Batman pinned his wrists behind his back with one hand, while twisting the knife deeper into his thigh with the other. "Give up, before I nick the artery, pull it free, and let you bleed out," he ordered.

"Nice try, Batclone, but I know you're bluffing."

Batman didn't hesitate. "A few months ago, you would have been right. But you know what they say," he gave the knife another half-turn, surprised at his rush of satisfaction when Black Mask cried out. "Practise makes perfect. This is for Alfred," he twisted again. "And this is for Stephanie Brown. And…" _Bruce said to FIND him… NOT kill him!_ He reminded himself. _But he _had_ to know what happened with Blockbuster. He couldn't _order_ me to kill Black Mask, but he must want me to… doesn't he? Or is it that even if he knows what happened, and even if he wants Black Mask dead, he trusts me to do the right thing? How do I figure out what he really wants me to do, this time?_ A new thought occurred to him, suddenly. _Why should that even be a factor? Even if he wants you to kill him, YOU know better. But… he killed Alfred. _He started to twist the knife again, then stopped. _Would Alfred want you to avenge him this way? Sure, Black Mask deserves it. But YOU don't deserve to become his murderer. Do this and he wins. Blockbuster wins. Joker wins. _

He blinked. _You don't want to kill him, not really. Not because _Bruce _wouldn't approve—Bruce _doesn't_ have anything to do with this decision. When you attacked Joker, you either weren't thinking clearly, or else… you were thinking _very_ clearly. Strangling Joker with at least two people nearby who knew CPR and rescue breathing… you knew there was a better than even chance that somebody was going to resuscitate him. Blockbuster… you walked away and let somebody else pull the trigger. There's no way that you made the right move, that time. But, you didn't _actively_ kill him. You screwed up, and you did everything you could to punish yourself for it… everything except talk to the person you felt you'd failed the most. Were you that afraid he wouldn't forgive you? Or… were you afraid that he _would? Realization hit him. _Forgiving you was never up to Bruce, because you never failed him in the first place. The only person you ever really failed was yourself. Moment of truth, then, Grayson: how do you _really _make up for that moment of weakness?_

He took his hand off the throwing knife and clamped it tightly around Black Mask's neck, feeling for the right spot. A moment later, the crime lord's head lolled forward, as the blackout hold took effect. Dick suddenly realized that he hadn't exhaled for a while. He did so now, and gulped in several breaths of, truth-be-told, somewhat stale air. He didn't care; right now, it was sweeter to him than fresh-mown grass in summertime.

"Robin," he asked faintly, "You okay?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yes," Batman replied, wonderingly. "I think I am." His voice turned grim. "I also think I told you to stay put until I got here," he added with a glare.

Robin looked away. "You know you did. I…" He shook his head. "No excuses. I messed up."

Dick nodded. "Good. You know it. Help me move Roman out into the hallway with the rest of his people. I think the cops are getting ready to burst in, here."

Tim blinked at him. "That's it?"

"You know you goofed. It doesn't happen often. And you won't make the same mistake again, right?"

Tim grinned, as he moved forward to take hold of Black Mask's legs. That was when the gunshot rang out.

* * *

_Moments ago_… 

"Chandler!" Akins didn't shout; he projected. But it sure sounded like he was shouting.

"Commissioner."

"You wouldn't know anything about Wayne going into convulsions over some drugged food earlier tonight, would you?"

Romy's mouth dropped open. "I… I," she stammered. "It wasn't me!"

"Oh?" Akins snarled. "Your name wasn't on the applesauce jar? Your prints weren't found on some highly suspicious items? That conversation we had a couple of weeks ago… I knew you weren't one of his fans in the Department, but I never _dreamed_ you'd carry things this far!" Romy was shaking her head, her eyes pleading with his, but he ignored her. His last confrontation with Gordon, the newspaper articles and editorial cartoons, too many good people dying on him—Cornwell only the last in a long line… Batman. Batman, always standing in the shadows, arrogant, confident, self assured—well of course he was! _He_ didn't have to answer to the press and the politicians. He could just get on with doing what he thought his job was: protecting Gotham. Akins had sworn that the GCPD could manage just fine without the Bat—and they couldn't even protect him from one of their own! With everything they knew about Chandler's attitude toward the Bat, she shouldn't have been allowed within fifty feet of the hospital. Forget the field day; the media was going to be celebrating 12 days of Christmas _twice_ this year!

He advanced a step toward Chandler, and she, paling, moved back, frightened as much by the cold fury in his eyes as she was by the vein pulsing in his temple. "Get out of here," he ordered. "Go home, Chandler, and _don't _leave Gotham."

Romy shook her head. "Sir…"

"GO!" He spun around on his heel, and came face to face with Lippman. _Perfect_.

Romy stood there. Now, what was she supposed to do? She'd come in Azevedo's unit. Did Akins mean for her to depart this area alone at this hour of the night? _He doesn't care_, she realized. Seeing him talking with Lippman, her expression hardened. _All he's worried about now is tomorrow's headline. _

Montoya came over to her. "Romy?"

She shook her head. "He didn't even want to listen," She said, walking slowly past the video feed. "He…" she froze. An image on one of the screens caught her eye. Some people could remember faces, or voices with uncanny accuracy. Her specialty was walks. And… bandages or no, she recognized that one. Her expression hardened. FBI training included stealth techniques—and she was about to see whether she remembered any of them from her days with the Bureau. Grimly she assessed her surroundings. Akins hadn't taken her gun. She found its weight at her hip to be comforting, as she looked back at the warehouse.

"I'll be fine," she told Renee. "Once this all gets settled." She waited until her fellow officer resumed her post before she furtively doubled back the way she'd come.

* * *

"Robin!" 

The younger boy automatically clapped a hand to the side of his head. It came away bloody.

"Here," Batman said urgently. "Let me see." He sighed with relief. "It only grazed you." He ripped open a sterile gauze packet and pressed it to the wound.

A second shot sounded, and Black Mask's body jerked once, then stiffened. Batman turned grimly. "Don't tell me," he said to the figure standing atop the staircase in the corner, "you were the only one in your graduating class who took the hypo_crit_ic instead of the Hippocratic."

If Hush was smiling, you couldn't tell through the bandages. "Careful with the wisecracks," he replied. "Of the last two comics I encountered, one ended up broken, and I'm fairly sure the other one's no longer breathing."

"Why?" He demanded. "Why Alfred?"

"Why Chandler?" Hush taunted. "Why Ivy? Why the Clocktower?"

Batman started forward. "What?"

"Didn't you ever wonder why Black Mask was so certain that the Tower was the Batcave?" Hush chuckled. "You have no idea how hard it was to sink that notion into his," he pointed negligently at the body on the floor, "head."

Dick advanced another step. "Alright, I'll bite. Why?"

"What happened after the Clocktower was destroyed?" Hush asked. "It's the age old question: who benefits? Or, conversely, in this case… who suffers? Who suffers when his chief information-gatherer washes her hands of him? When his allies disperse, because the Gotham climate suddenly becomes too dangerous for the costumed crowd…"

"You couldn't have known that the Tower would be destroyed," he snapped, wondering how in the _hell_ Hush had even known of its significance.

"That's right," Hush agreed, "but I had an idea of how _he_ would react if someone put one of his contingency plans into effect. I've made my studies of you, _all_ of you… from my old childhood friend, to his surrogate family, to those on the periphery. Even to his former inventor-cum-mechanic. The right trigger, the appropriate words or actions at the proper time… and people generally behave as you'd expect them to. Chandler's a perfect example. She couldn't have been a bigger help if she'd _known_ what I was planning. But then," he sighed mockingly, "I'm usually a few moves ahead of the multitude. Even your mentor."

"So you set out to destroy him, because—"

"Because I could," Hush said easily. "Because even though a few have come close, nobody's really succeeded. Besides," he added, "it was fun. Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work, you know."

Dick felt his mind reeling. "You mean that all of this was just to… to prove that you can outthink Bruce? No wonder," he spat bitterly, "you and Nigma got on so well!"

Hush laughed. "Very good. How many a dispute could have been deflated into a single paragraph if the disputants had dared to define their terms, I wonder.

"Bane had the right idea, of course," he continued, as though conducting a lecture. "He successfully exhausted him physically and mentally… but when the crunch came, Batman still had his allies about him. Not all of you, but enough. I went one better. And now…"

"Alfred," Dick snarled.

Hush sighed. "I am sorry about that one. He was a good man. I needed Batman reacting emotionally, rather than logically. I did suggest to Sionis that he hold the man for ransom, knowing how that would rattle Brucie. But I never condoned torture. Not for him, and not for the Brown girl. I told him, if he wanted somebody out of the way permanently, it was much more effective to simply… how shall I phrase it… 'stick a needle in'?"

Batman felt rage, white hot and incandescent churning within him. He was about to lunge up the stairs, when a woman's voice behind him called out:

"Batman! Move out of the way. You're blocking my shot."


	8. Shattered Facade

Disclaimer: See previous chapters. "The Way Back" and "Lost in the Darkness" lyrics written by Leslie Bricusse. From the _Jekyll & Hyde _CD, copyright 1997 by Atlantic Records. Flashbacks from _Nightwing_ #93, _Adventures of Superman_ #643. Other references: _Gotham Central: In the Line of Duty_, _Gotham Central #25, Identity Crisis, Batman: The Killing Joke_.

Thanks as always to Char for beta reading, legal advice, and support.

* * *

_I'll find a way back to the higher ground_

_And see the view I saw before!_

_I'll search the world until the answer's found--_

_Turn my despair around_

_Forevermore!_

_Somehow I've got to rebuild _

_All the dreams that the wind has scattered._

_From what fate has shattered--_

_I'll retrieve what mattered!_

_Somehow I've got to go on,_

_Till the evil has been defeated…_

_--Leslie Bricusse, Jekyll & Hyde

* * *

_

**Chapter 8: Shattered Façade**

_It had been another night, another city, another enemy goading him onward, taunting him with everything that he had lost, with everything he yet stood to lose. In his mind, he could still hear Blockbuster in the stairwell of the Haven Hotel. "I'll take out the people you care about… Hell, even strangers you stand next to on the street… you won't be able to shake someone's hand without marking them for death! Do you like being alone, Dick?" He had screamed at Rolly to shut up, but the Bludhaven crime boss had been relentless. And then, he had heard another voice, from the stairs below them, behind Rolly…_

"_Get out of the way, Nightwing. All you have to do is get out of my way." _

He hadn't wanted Blockbuster dead, not really. Not that he would have been broken up were the Bludhaven Bugle to report that Desmond had been found floating facedown in the river, of course. But he hadn't wanted the man dead. 'Shoot or watch,' Barbara had said before. He had done neither. He had moved out of Tarantula's line of fire, and turned his back on the pair of them. And she had pulled the trigger. And suddenly, it hadn't mattered that Desmond had been cutting a bloody swath through every friend that Dick had made since relocating to Bludhaven. Dick had been the only thing keeping Roland Desmond alive, and walking away had killed him as surely as if Dick had held the gun, himself.

"_Batman! Move out of the way. You're blocking my shot."_ This time, the voice was coming from behind him. He recognized it easily. Under the steely resolve, he could still detect a faint quiver of rage, and a trace of near-hysteria.

"Put the gun down, Detective Chandler," Dick said, without turning around. "You're playing into his hands."

"I've got six shots in here," Chandler said steadily. "If you don't step aside, I have no problem using one of them to drop you. Move. Unless you want to gamble that your costume's still bullet-proof at point-blank range."

He'd been shot before. He hadn't cared for the experience. Dick knew that he should act as he had been trained to do: preserve human life--any human life, even if he had to give up his own in the process. That was what Bruce had instilled in him, nearly from the day that he had come to live at the manor. Bruce wasn't here, though. Thanks to the self-satisfied bandage-wrapped man standing eleven stairs above him, Bruce was out of commission. And, if matters were up to Dick… Should he _really _sacrifice himself to save Elliot? Maybe. If it would actually save him. But, it wouldn't. If he chose not to move out of the way, Chandler would fire on him, and once he was down, she'd move on to Elliot.

Would it be the lesser evil to give his life, knowing all the while that it would be a useless gesture… or would it be better to accept that some people could not be saved, that some people were not worth saving, and to cut his losses accordingly? Chandler was a cop. She was _allowed_ to carry a gun. And, from what Dick had seen and heard tonight, Hush had destroyed her as neatly as he had Bruce. She had almost as much reason as he did to want the man dead. And yes, if he had to be completely honest with himself, right at this precise moment in time, he did want Elliot permanently… out of the way. But not like this. "You sure you want to do things this way, Chandler?" He asked.

"I'm a cop. He's resisting arrest. And we both know he's got a gun. Somehow, I don't see IA getting too upset over this one." Or, they wouldn't, Romy realized, if not for her fingerprints on the Desoxyn. Hush's fault, she seethed. "Last chance."

Dick had never asked Catalina her reasons for shooting Desmond. He hadn't had to. She'd been working for the man, and had been trying to terminate their association. She had blamed Desmond for corrupting her brother, although Dick had to wonder just how unwilling an employee Matteo Flores had actually been. And, much as it horrified him, Catalina had killed Desmond, at least partly… for him. She had been so eager to demonstrate that her loyalty was to him, and not to Blockbuster--and by her own actions, she had demonstrated, conversely that they were _not_ on the same side. And yet _he_ had felt guilty, because he had walked away from Desmond, lending tacit approval to her actions. He had felt guilty, because he had his suspicions that she had killed, partly in an attempt to impress him, and prove her fighting prowess. And, he had felt guilty… because, when he realized that _she_ hadn't, he had let the matter slide.

Now, similarly, he had no need to ask Detective Chandler for _her_ reasons. From the conversation that Dick had overheard earlier, Elliot had manipulated her, toyed with her emotions, and coldly manoeuvred her into making the moves that he required of her, in order to launch an attack on Bruce. And Chandler was angry, frightened, betrayed, hurt… _this was starting to sound familiar_.

He took a step backwards, and then locked eyes with Hush. To his astonishment, there was no apprehension on the older man's face. Instead, he saw a slight triumphant smile. What was Elliot thinking? …And all at once, it hit him. _If Hush's goal is to utterly destroy Bruce, then…_ He saw it. And it wasn't going to work.

"The stair's too narrow, Detective," he said, not taking his eyes off of Hush. "I won't be able to get around you. Back down so I can follow."

Silence. Then slow, deliberate footfalls told him that she was complying. "Your turn," she said grimly after she had descended five steps. "For every step you take, I'll take another one."

Batman backed down, never taking his eyes off Hush. He forced himself to remember his feelings during his brief stint with the Jersey mob: the self-loathing, the guilt, and the sense of resignation--he had genuinely believed that he had no other choice back then. _Don't dwell on your mistakes. Don't excuse them. But always try to take away something that you've learned from them._ Bruce's lessons? Yes, in part. There was a lot of Bruce in him… but those instructions resonated within his consciousness, finding and striking a strong internal cord. He had tried to make himself believe once that he was whom he was, solely due to his mentor's incessant drillings, that without them, he would have ended up dead or in prison a long time ago. Bruce's influence _was_ a factor, a huge factor… but there was more to Dick than Bruce. There always had been.

The world shrank down to the size of the stairwell, as Elliot's eyes took on a gleam of satisfaction. Dick could see it, now. The grandmaster, ruthlessly drawing up war plans--not _contingency_ plans, such as Bruce had devised in reaction to a potential worst-case scenario--these were primary battle plans. That's what he had done the first time, too: launched an unprovoked attack to catch them all off-guard, followed by a carefully orchestrated strategy, wherein he had manipulated enemies and allies alike--as though they were no more than pawns on a chessboard. _Bruce and I _are_ more alike than we sometimes want to admit. And we both have that tendency to hold ourselves accountable for other people's actions._

The universe expanded again, as Chandler advanced, revolver held steady before her. She was two paces behind him, then one, then a half… As she was about to pass him, Batman's hand shot out, pinning her wrist, and forcing the gun barrel to point upwards at a 45-degree angle. Chandler cried out in sudden pain, as the weapon was forced from her grasp.

"What do you think you're doing?" She snapped.

Batman shot her a quick look. "Queening a pawn," he replied grimly, as he pointed the gun again at Hush.

"You wanted me to let her shoot you," Dick said coldly. "That's Kevlar under the trench coat, isn't it?"

Elliot smiled faintly. "Close enough. It's strong enough to withstand armour-piercers, as well."

"You're gambling she'd be aiming for your torso."

"Please," Hush said casually, "you know what they teach you at the police academy: aim for the largest target. Torso over head over extremity, any day of the week. It was worth the risk. So, now that you know my little secret, what are you going to do about it? If you bring me in… I know a few things about psychological evaluations. I'll allow myself to be committed to Arkham, and then…" a nasty smile suddenly appeared on his face… "Well, you'll never know when something else is going to happen to poor old Brucie. He's already going to Arkham until the trial. It might be interesting to speculate on what could happen were… say… several cell doors at that worthy asylum to be left mysteriously unlocked one night."

Dick went deathly pale. "You can't."

Elliot chortled. "Perhaps you're right." His head jerked up, abruptly. "Did you ever wonder how Blockbuster found out that you caused the traffic jam in which his mother suffered a fatal heart attack?"

"What?"

"Or why a certain mutual acquaintance had the presence of mind to slip you a business card while you were… ahem… voluntarily detained in BPD holding?"

His thoughts began to spin. "You're lying."

"Maybe." Hush shrugged. "You had a good idea, you know. Sooner or later, Bruce was going to find out that you'd turned yourself in, and when he did, it would definitely have been a blow to him. But once he did become aware, he would have moved heaven and earth to get you freed. However, if you truly _had_ become a criminal… I might not have had to organize the old man's kidnapping." His tone was conversational. "Your perfidy alone would probably have been enough to break my old friend. Think," he said mockingly. "Had you remained with the mob, your family might actually have been better off."

"You're insane." His mind was reeling. Had Hush truly been setting Bruce up all those months ago? "Did you tell Black Mask how to take control of the mob, too?"

"I'll make things easy for you," Elliot replied. "I took advantage of every opportunity I had. Sometimes, events just fell into place. Sometimes, I had to nudge them along. Maybe I was the one who made the suggestion that Sionis invite Tevis back to Gotham. Maybe I put the contract on your former Captain. It could have been my bullet that hit your shoulder. Almost anything in life is possible. For another example, it's possible, hypothetically speaking, of course, that, when I was ten, I stole and pawned a pair of earrings, which my mother seldom wore, and used the proceeds to take out a contract on a doctor and his wife… parents of one of my school friends, incidentally." He shrugged. "Maybe I've built a time machine, and gone back to kidnap the Lindberg baby. They never really solved that one. But that's all past, if you'll… ah… pardon the pun. As you ought to, considering the vast number of them that you once uttered."

Batman ignored the barb. "And you did all this… because you could?"

Hush shrugged. "Bruce proved, the last couple of times that he could beat me. I needed to know that I had improved since our last encounter."

"Do you hate him that much?"

Hush looked surprised. "Actually, I admire him. He who is unable to live in society, or who has no need because he is sufficient for himself, must be either a beast or a god. If Bruce is neither, I think we can both agree in principle that he's closer to the second extreme. I might have been the first to pit myself against him, when we were children. Perhaps it's only fitting that I be the last."

"You haven't won, yet," Dick snarled.

"I think I will. You don't have many options. Bring me in, and Bruce dies. Maybe not right away… I'm fairly sure the staff will take adequate precautions, but sooner or later, the opportunity will present itself. Let me walk away, and I'll see to it that every potential ally you might have in any city will be aware of that detail. Kill me and you're likely to kill Bruce as well, once he finds out." He smiled. "So where does that leave you?"

"Bruce is a lot stronger than you give him credit for."

Hush raised his hands expansively. "He's already lost his oldest friend, and his youngest son… twice. The woman who became the closest thing he had to a mother after his parents died has betrayed every ideal that she once held dear, and that he admired in her. When you betray everything he made that costume stand for, what will that do to him, I wond--Ahhhh!"

The batarang sliced into his upraised right palm with a sickening splutch, and enough force to pin the appendage to the wall behind him. Caught off-balance, Hush staggered, as his weight pulled on the immobilized hand, enlarging the wound. He slapped his other hand against the wall to steady himself.

Without hesitation, Dick threw a second batarang to penetrate Hush's left hand. The large man stared at him, eyes wide with shock and pain. "What have you done?"

"What you did to Bruce," Dick said coldly. "Destroyed you. I wouldn't struggle too much. You'll only cause more tissue damage. Somehow, I don't think you'll be able to perform surgery with _those_ hands again." He pointed the gun at Elliot's lower leg, revelling in the look of fear now on Hush's face. A bullet to the shin might leave him in a physical state similar to Bruce's. And in the short term, it would put more weight still on the man's hands, increasing the damage sustained. It would be so easy. _Too easy_, he realized. On second thought, he had a better idea. He advanced toward the pinioned surgeon. "I want you," he gritted "to get one thing clear. At this point in time, I have only one reason to keep you alive, the one you knew damn well when you set this whole thing up: Bruce wouldn't like it if I killed you. So now, your life depends on his. You make good on what you threatened, and if I have to _build_ a spy satellite to find you, I will. From this moment forward, if _anything_ happens to him while he's in custody, I'm holding you accountable. If you're as good at long-term planning and manipulation as you've claimed, I'm going to believe what you wanted me to believe a minute ago: that it was all part of your plan. Do you understand me, Elliot? If Joker hurts him… I hurt you. If Zsasz kills him, you'd better _pray_ I've gotten past Bruce's scruples, because as you've just found out… there are worse things I can do to you than kill you. _Don't _give me a reason."

He waited for Hush to nod, before turning his back on the man. Silently, he unloaded the revolver before he handed it back to Detective Chandler.

She accepted it. "Batman," she asked, "are you…"

He shook himself. "I think so," he said in a normal tone of voice. "Where's…" He glanced over to where Robin sat, leaning against the wall. The gauze that Dick had given him had become saturated by blood, and the younger vigilante was now pressing his cape against the wound. Dick bent over him.

"You're not going to like this," he said gently, "but that needs stitches." He extracted a small bottle of alcohol and a needle and filament from one of the pouches of his belt."

Tim gaped at him. "You know how to sew?"

"Well enough for this. I'm guessing at some point in your training, Bruce taught you pain control techniques. Now," he said, as he sprayed the area with a topical anaesthetic, "would be a good time to use them, because _this_ might not be enough on its own."

Romy stood apart, watching, as Batman stitched the wound shut. The boy flinched each time the needle went in, but he never cried out.

"How are we supposed to get out of here?" Romy asked, once he had finished. "They've got this place surrounded."

Batman glanced at Robin. The boy nodded and gestured toward one of the windows facing on the river. Batman beckoned to Romy to follow him. She did so. Looking out the window, she could see a small craft tethered to a dock piling.

"They'll be watching the waterfront, too," She protested.

"Then, we'll give them a good show," Batman said grimly.

"But--"

"I can't let Robin jump rooftops in his current condition. And I can't ask you to, either."

She thought of something else. "Security cameras. They probably caught the whole thing. And they'll see…"

"No, they won't," Robin spoke up, suddenly. "What they're getting off of the video feeds out there… it's um… transmission delayed for final edit." He exchanged a quick glance with Batman.

"Then why bother at all?" Romy frowned.

"What happened last summer… we didn't want to run the risk of your people charging into a lot of guys with Teflon-coated bullets. All those armour-piercing shells? Whatever's not on the streets is either in the guns I confiscated from those creeps downstairs, or it's in the basement. Hush had other ideas when he set up the feed, of course."

"It was Hu--"

Batman flinched. Elliot had tried to goad him into committing murder. And, had everything gone according to plan… When all of this was over and done with, he was definitely going to contact Wonder Woman and try to listen to her side of the Maxwell Lord matter with an open mind.

"FBW?" Oracle's voice came over his comlink. "Is everything okay? Because Gotham's Finest seems to be getting ready to move in."

Dick nodded. He turned to Romy. "How many cops on dry land?"

Romy considered. "Probably thirty. I don't know, exactly."

"And watching the water?"

"Eight," she admitted.

"That's why we're going to take the water route. Preferably before they lose patience and come storming in. Let's go."

* * *

An hour and a half later, a non-descript black car deposited Romy Chandler on the front steps of the brownstone residence she called home. Her mind was reeling as she turned her key in the front door lock, and trudged the three flights of stairs up to her apartment. A somewhat rotund figure in a trench coat, who was sitting in the hallway outside her door rose at her approach. 

"What do you want, Lippman?" Romy asked wearily. After the events of the last six hours, she had virtually no interest in anything other than a long hot bath, and possibly the last few hours of sleep in her own bed before IA hauled her off to the Schreck.

"Your side," the reporter stated simply.

"My--"

"Look," Simon Lippman explained, "I admit I don't know you that well, Detective Chandler, but from what I've seen, and," he said sheepishly, "from what I've picked up from the squad room chatter on my way into Captain Sawyer's office, I think you're probably a little too smart to dispose of incriminating evidence, like a pill card, in the wastepaper basket of the same hospital where your target was a patient, when your apartment building has an incinerator at the end of the hall." He pointed to the small trapdoor set roughly four feet up from the floor beneath a notice that warned residents not to dump their trash between the hours of eleven p.m. and seven a.m. "So. It is now 2:20 a.m. The paper goes to bed at 4. And I can be a _very_ fast typist when I have to be. Do I have to be?"

Romy hesitated. "I'll need a minute to put some coffee on."

* * *

Akins entered Gotham Central at eight a.m. the next morning. The police commissioner had slept poorly, and when he had awoken, it had been to nightmarish headlines: 

_Batman and Robin elude police siege. Black Mask found dead at scene. Disgraced surgeon left for GCPD_

_Wayne attacks hospital staff after consuming drugged food. Commissioner suspends detective suspect._

_Accused Detective Speaks Out (Exclusive interview, page 3)_

_Batman evades 40-cop stakeout and still catches perp! Taxpayers' coalition questions Akins' effectiveness_

His eyes widened at the next entry: _Mayor's office comes clean on Lexcorp kickbacks_

If Mayor Hull was admitting to that openly…

"Sir?" A new receptionist greeted him nervously at the front desk. It looked as though Personnel had finally hired someone permanently, after over 4 months of support staffers from other departments filling in.

Akins forced himself to smile. "Yes, Ms…"

"Michaela Wood, Commissioner. The… the mayor's office has left five messages for you." She handed him several squares of paper. He accepted them with a sigh. He had a feeling he knew what the mayor wanted, this time.

* * *

Bruce awoke to a sour taste in his mouth. His tongue felt like cotton. He tried to raise a hand to rub the sleep from his eyes, and found that he could not. He tried the other hand and met the same results. He struggled to sit up, and just barely managed to see the leather strap, which stretched across his chest and over his forearms. 

"H-" His voice was little more than a croak. "Hello?" he called out.

Immediately, somebody thrust a drinking straw between his lips, and Bruce gulped the water gratefully.

"Take it easy," Gordon's voice said gently. "You had a rough night of it."

Had he? "Not… another nightmare." In front of the guard detail. He closed his eyes. That was all he needed. One more weakness revealed: Batman has nightmares. "So…" he sighed, resigned, "more sedatives."

There was a long pause. "I'm afraid so."

Just when it was getting easier to think, too. And Arkham, Bruce realized unhappily, was likely to be more of the same, only worse. How was he going to be able to defend himself _when_, not if, Joker or Scarecrow attacked him? His muscles were weakening daily, due to lack of use. It was going to require major physical therapy once the cast came off. And just how eager were the doctors at Arkham going to be to help him get back into physical shape? More troubling at the moment, though, why was he currently in restraints?

"Rae coming today?" He asked.

"Rae?" Gordon sounded surprised. "You mean your lawyer? I don't know. Why?"

"Can't move," Bruce explained. "Any time she's coming, they… strap me down. I thought…"

Gordon's voice was suddenly tired. "No, Bruce. As far as I know, she isn't. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but I thought you'd rather hear it from a friend." He paused, trying to think how to explain.

"Jim?"

Gordon drew a deep breath. "As near as I understand it… it seems that somebody put a-a stimulant into your food. It counteracted your sedatives." He waited for his words to sink in. "It also gave you some… fairly violent… dreams last night."

"Violent?" Bruce repeated. "What did I--"

"And so," Gordon continued, softly, "the doctor decided that, given what you're capable of doing while you're asleep, he had no choice but to order… that you be kept under restraint," he forced himself to finish the sentence, loathing every word of it, "for the duration of your stay in this hospital."

Bruce tried to keep his face impassive, but Gordon saw the mask slip. "What did I do?" He asked finally.

"It doesn't matter," Gordon said. "You weren't in control. You weren't responsible. I _know _you didn't intend…"

Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Jim. Where are you?"

"I… I'm right here." His voice was suddenly nervous.

"Let me see you, Jim." Bruce demanded. "Let me see your face."

"Bruce…"

"I hurt you. Didn't I?"

Silence.

"How badly? Jim, please! I have to know. I--" Bruce gasped as the former commissioner's face moved abruptly into his line of vision. A deep purple bruise covered almost the entire right side. A brace protected his right wrist.

"You weren't yourself," Gordon said firmly. "The medication… you weren't responsible…"

_Another time, not so long ago… Superman had come to him in the cave. Ostensibly, to see how Bruce was feeling. Actually, the Man of Steel had been looking for forgiveness, for beating Bruce nearly to death when Maxwell Lord took control of his mind. Bruce had tried to avoid a direct answer. The conversation had gone downhill from there. Superman had asked him about Brother I--his spy satellite gone rogue, no longer under his control. Bruce had not responded. What could he have said, beyond the obvious--another tool he had created to defend himself should the League ever betray its principles. Another tool had fallen into the wrong hands. Superman had guessed._

"_That's the problem with not trusting anyone: it makes it impossible for them to trust _you!_"_

_Bruce's immediate retort had been "Less than eighteen hours ago, you almost killed me. Less than a week ago, Superboy almost killed the Teen Titans. Do you _really_ want to lecture me about trust right now?"_

_As if in a dream, Bruce again heard Clark protest. "We're not responsible for…" _

…_And his own merciless rejoinder: "You're the most powerful man on Earth! You don't _get_ the luxury of that excuse!"_

If only he could take back those words. The instant that he'd uttered them, he'd known that he hadn't meant them. He'd only wanted Superman to know that he needed more time before he'd be able to forgive. Clark had just _had _to push the issue. Yes. Of course. It was all _Clark's_ fault he'd responded that way. Bruce wasn't at _all_ responsible for his own actions. And… the chilling thought wormed its way into his mind. _Did _not_ being 'the most powerful man on Earth' in any way give him a free pass? Or, to rephrase, had he awoken to find Jim dead at his hands, would he have dared to ask--much less expect--Barbara to forgive him? It didn't matter that he hadn't succeeded. What mattered was that he had _tried.

Snips and snatches of his dream returned. He remembered. Akins had called him… a menace… in his dream… and in a press conference almost a year earlier. Akins… was right. If Bruce could do… what he had done to Jim… then, Akins was right. And if Bruce was a menace, then… he needed to be shut away. He would shut himself away. Slowly, Bruce sifted back through his memories. His parents. Alfred. Dick. Jason. Tim. Barbara. Jim. Selina. Jean-Paul. Vesper. Stephanie. And the others. The last time he had abandoned Bruce Wayne, he had allowed himself one final tour through the manor before exiting via the cave. This time… it would be a mental journey, but, like the previous one, he intended it to be a one-way trip. Unlike the previous leave-taking, though, this time, he wanted as many memories as he could take. They would sustain him where he was going. They would have to.

Gordon told Dick later, that he could almost pinpoint the instant that Bruce had withdrawn. As if a curtain had fallen across his eyes, some minute glimmer of awareness, of intellect, that had been there a moment before was suddenly snuffed out as though it had never been. And Bruce might as well have been a deaf man for all the effect that Gordon's entreaties had had.

* * *

Mayor Hull didn't wait for Akins to be seated. No sooner did the door to his inner office close behind the commissioner than he began: "I just want to be clear, Mike that this has noth-what's this?" He asked as Akins handed him a sealed, legal-sized envelope. 

"My letter of resignation, Mister Mayor." At Hull's startled expression, Akins continued. "That _is_ why you asked me here, this morning, isn't it?"

Hull hesitated for a moment, just long enough for Akins to think that maybe he'd read the signs wrong. That perhaps, Hull's coming clean on Lexcorp of his own volition had resulted from a crisis of conscience and had nothing to do with the threat that Akins had dangled over his head months earlier.

It had been right after the mob war, when Akins ordered the Signal taken down. When Hull threatened to fire him if the signal weren't replaced, Akins had threatened to blow the lid on Hull's jaunt to the Caymans, financed by Luthor's old company. That round went to the commissioner. But by admitting to the scandal now, of his own free will, after having recently won re-election, by offering a full apology to the people of Gotham, Hull was going to come out of this stronger than before… and Akins had no leverage.

"Mr. Mayor?" He asked again.

Hull nodded, slowly. "Yeah, Mike. That's why I asked you."

Akins nodded defeated. "I'll… have my office cleared out by five, then," he said, turning around.

"Mike?" Akins waited, hand on the doorknob. "You're a good cop, Mike. I mean that. But this is a bad city. Sometimes, it needs unofficial backup."

Akins looked back over his shoulder. "That's your opinion, Mr. Mayor." Then he pulled open the door, and walked out.

* * *

Romy put the final touches on her formal request for a leave of absence. The last few months had been difficult. Were she to remain, the next few weeks would be worse. Between the accusations, the fact that she had spoken with the press, the way Elliot had duped her… maybe she _was _running away from her problems. At the moment, she didn't particularly care. She needed to get out of Gotham. 

There was another matter, as well. Last night, she had heard the exchange between Batman and Elliot. Marcus had been right, weeks ago. Gotham needed Batman. And, although Wayne remained in custody, Gotham still had its Batman. But, Romy wondered, how far would she need to dig, to find a close friend or relative of Wayne's, who had apparently been a cop, been wounded, turned himself in to the BPD… it was too easy to check into. She didn't trust herself not to. And if she was able to connect the dots… whoever it was under the cowl now had saved her life, and salvaged some part of her soul as well. She couldn't repay that with betrayal. But she didn't think that she could willingly overlook the evidence, nor the path down which it would lead her. Gordon could do it. He had managed for years. There was no way that a man that smart could miss the details, unless he wanted to. But she wasn't Gordon. And she didn't trust herself to keep Pandora's box shut. So… she had to distance herself from the box.

Absently she opened a desk drawer and began sorting through papers. She paused as her gaze fell on her first semester transcript from the FBI training centre at Quantico. She hadn't left because she'd washed out; she'd left because, after a few agents had warned her about the boredom level and the sheer volume of paperwork, she had applied to the police academy, certain that she'd thought she'd found something better. And for a while, she had. But now… maybe what she needed was to lose herself in the bureaucracy and the paperwork. Hesitantly, she dialled the telephone number that appeared at the bottom of the transcript and asked to be connected to the admissions office.

She hung up the phone a few minutes later, pleasantly surprised. Returning to Quantico wasn't going to be as impossible as she had thought. There was a new class starting in three months. By then, she might just have worked through enough of her issues to pass the psych profile.

* * *

"Oh, Renee?" Montoya turned to see Captain Sawyer beckoning to her. "Could I see you in here for a moment?" 

She stepped into her shift commander's office.

"Shut the door behind you, Renee." Once she complied, Maggie Sawyer leaned forward, expression serious.

"First, I thought you should know," she said, "Chandler's taking an extended leave of absence. You were one of the last to speak with her, right?"

Montoya nodded. "Did she give a reason? I mean," she amended, "a reason that you can disclose?"

"Just that she needed a change. Understandable, given the circumstances, I'd say. However, that's not the main reason that I've asked you to step in here."

Renee waited. Maggie continued.

"By now, I'm sure you're aware that Akins resigned today." She barely waited for Renee to nod. "Tomorrow morning, they'll be announcing his replacement at a press conference. Mayor Hull asked me to accept the promotion," she clarified. "And I have."

Renee's grin was genuine. "Congratulations, Ma'am." She frowned. "You invited me in here, just to tell me that privately?"

Maggie shook her head. "My promotion means that the GCPD is currently short two shift commanders. Sarge has been filling in for second shift since we," she lowered her eyes, "lost Cornwell. The position will be his permanently by the end of the week. That still leaves first shift open, though. What do you say?"

"Me?" Montoya blinked. "I… Capt... Commi… Ma'am… this is completely unexpected. I…"

"Renee," Maggie's voice was firm. "I didn't ask you whether you were expecting the promotion. I asked you whether you wanted it. Do you?"

Montoya met Sawyer's gaze squarely. "Yes."

* * *

_Two weeks later_… 

Dick entered Gordon's house (there was no more talk about calling it his 'old' house, now) and sat down heavily on one of the dining room chairs.

"No change?" Barbara asked.

"None," he confirmed. "Bruce doesn't talk, doesn't look around… the one thing he does is eat--if someone feeds him, and then it's almost the exact amount needed for subsistence." He shook his head. "At least Commissioner Sawyer doesn't have a problem with my visiting the hospital. But I don't know what to do anymore, once I'm there. I-you know how in all those movies-of-the-week, when the guy in the coma hears someone else say they love them… the guy wakes up? Or smiles? Or reacts some other way? This isn't a movie-of-the-week."

Barbara wheeled over and began to massage his shoulders. He folded his arms on the table and pillowed his head. "They're taking him out of traction some time this week. Nobody's telling me when, because once he's out, they're packing him off to Arkham, and… if I was going to stage a rescue attempt, that would be the time."

"Are you?"

Dick lifted his head and swivelled around to look at her. "If I thought for one minute that he was faking this, yes I would. But he isn't. And I don't know what I could do for him, here. But, once that hearing rolls around, if Bruce isn't better by then, can you find out about other options… maybe out of State?"

"Okay," Barbara said dubiously. "But, now that they know he's Batman, you realize that the only facilities likely to agree to take him are probably going to be places just like Arkham."

"Except that in the other places, seventy-five per cent of the inmates aren't going to hold Bruce personally responsible for their being there."

Barbara considered that. "I'm on it. Dick?" She ventured. "Is there anyone else who might be able to reach him? Raven… or Mirage?"

Dick shook his head. "I wouldn't want to try. After what Zatanna did… I don't think he'd want anybody in his mind. I couldn't force that on him." He looked up, suddenly. "Babs? I think I just thought of someone else who might be able to help. I'm going to need to take a drive into Bludhaven after work, tomorrow. Could you go to the hospital for me?"

* * *

Captain Amy Rohrbach's brow furrowed. "So, You're staying in Gotham, but someone else is going to be posing as Nightwing here, in order to hide the fact that you're no longer… Rookie, you're giving me a headache." 

Dick sighed. "I thought I owed you an advance warning. Considering."

"How long do you think you can keep this up, Dick?"

"As long as I have to. Nightwing's disappearance from Bludhaven can't coincide with Dick Grayson's reappearance in Gotham. And Batman and Nightwing have to be seen, either together, or in separate locales at the same time.

"What?" He asked, seeing her smile.

"Nothing, Sorry. I was just thinking despite it all, this is the most… together… I've seen you since… since Mary Redhorn's journal got turned over to the authorities. And, much as I'd like to chalk it up to my pep talk last year, somehow I don't think…"

"Amy!" Dick interrupted, "Do you think you could possibly make it in to Gotham on your next day off? There are a lot of activities for kids down at the port, make a family outing of it. I've got an idea."

"Will I regret this?"

"Only if you say no." His smile was infectious. As he explained what he wanted, her expression grew serious. She had several objections, which she raised strenuously, but ultimately, she agreed.

* * *

Gossip may be the only substance capable of travelling past the speed of light. Bruce Wayne's transfer to Arkham Asylum was carried out in the utmost secrecy. The wheelchair, property of the asylum, had been on the premises of the hospital for over a week. The publication ban on Batman's whereabouts, set into motion the night that he had been arrested, was to remain in force until such time that Wayne was under lock and key at Arkham. 

_But somehow, they knew…_

At seven p.m., after Barbara had left the hospital to prepare supper, a nurse entered Wayne's room, and injected him with a tranquilizer. Twenty minutes later, conscious but groggy, he was settled and secured in the wheelchair, and taken by elevator to the underground parking garage, where an ambulance awaited. In silence they loaded him aboard. In silence, they drove the ten and one-quarter miles to the asylum. In silence, they pulled up, not at the main gate, but at a little-used side entrance, where four burly orderlies waited. One took the handles of the chair and wheeled him out of the ambulance. A second held the door open, while the third preceded the wheelchair and the fourth took up the rear. It was only a short distance--twenty feet down one corridor, and ten down another to where a cell had been prepared for him. One orderly opened the iron door, featureless save for the two deadbolt locks, one set two feet from the floor, and one two feet from the lintel. The hinges were on the inside of the door, and there was no knob on the inmate's side. The orderly who had pushed the chair down the corridors now manoeuvred it into the cell. He turned the chair in the direction of the bed, and what appeared to be a small shelf situated about a foot over the mattress. The panel directly above the shelf was mesh screening.

"Your food will be placed here, three times a day," the orderly said, speaking for the first time. At his signal, the other two orderlies unstrapped Bruce and deposited him gently on the bed. The first orderly pointed to the light bulb overhead. "It's now seven fifty-five. That bulb goes off at 9 sharp, and will be turned on again at seven, tomorrow morning. If you need anything," he added, not unkindly, "there's a call button under the shelf, but it might take some time before somebody makes the trip down here. If you're really in some sort of trouble, the surveillance cameras will pick it up. A physical therapist will be here tomorrow between breakfast and lunch."

_Somehow, in the cells on the upper levels, they knew that he had arrived…_

Bruce lay impassively, and it was impossible to know how much he had heard. The orderlies withdrew, and Bruce heard the bolts slide into place, and the click of a lock hasp, to ensure that the deadbolts would not be slid back again by an unauthorized person.

_And the whispers and the laughter of the inmates on the upper levels grew raucous._

"_Riddle me this! What's another name for a committed crime-fighter?"_

"_Batman! Hahahahaha! And if this were Blackgate, we could say he's a man of conviction! Heh-heh!"_

"_But, Puddin', I thought he was just here for observation."_

"_My dear Ms. Quinn, sentence first. Verdict afterward."_

"_They say his cell's been waiting for him for a decade. I fear it will be long ere he leave it."_

"_He may be an enemy, but he deserves better. I find your comments leave me… cold."

* * *

_

"Hi, Jase. It's me. Dick. I just wanted you to know, I don't blame you for what happened. I thought I did… that's why I didn't say anything at the funeral. Truth was, after Alfred, I think I was all cried out. You know something? That was terrible. That made it sound like your burial was an afterthought. And it wasn't. I guess it just took me awhile to get past the way you'd changed. But I'm not exactly one to judge you, am I? See… I don't have any idea what you went through to change you. And I can't exactly ask you now, can I? I guess the only thing I can do, really, is apologize. If you tried to track me down, and I wasn't around when you needed me, Jason, I'm sorry. I'll probably never know what happened in that building, but one thing I do know, and that is that you are not to blame for any of this. There was nothing you could have done to change it. You keep telling yourself that, wherever you are, and I'll do the same, and maybe one day one of us will convince ourselves."

He placed the narcissus on the grave. Bruce would have left a rose, but somehow, Dick felt that his doing so meant accepting that Bruce wouldn't be able to visit this site for a good long time. It was Bruce's job to leave roses. Dick would leave narcissus, or lily, or daffodil, anything but roses. Not that he intended to explain this to anybody else. They might not understand.

* * *

_Five days later_

Robin stood nervously before the screened window. He hadn't seen Bruce since before his arrest, and his mentor's appearance shocked him. Bruce must have dropped at least twenty pounds, and lack of sunlight had given him an unhealthy pallor.

"Hey, Batman," he said trying to keep his tone normal. "They finally let me see you. I just thought you might like to know; I'm back in high school. Yeah, I didn't have any trouble making up what I missed. Listen," his expression turned serious, "I just want you to know, when you offered to adopt me; it wasn't that I didn't want to be around you full-time. I just needed more time by myself to sort things out. Anyway… when you… when you get better… maybe we could just… I'd like to talk about… Stephanie. You won't have to say anything unless you want to, Bruce. I just want to talk to somebody else who knew her. When you get better. Okay?"

Bruce gave no sign that he had heard. Robin inhaled noisily. "Please get better," he whispered.

* * *

The brown cardigan had seen better days. Today, it had been x-rayed, prodded, poked, twisted, and, from the length of time that Arkham security examined it, Gordon suspected that it had also been unravelled and re-knitted. Finally, convinced that the former police commissioner wasn't attempting to smuggle any contraband in, a guard accompanied him to the window and unlatched the screen so that the elderly man could slide the sweater through. "It's probably going to be getting colder at night down here before long, son," he said quietly. "Just so you know, your replacement is doing a fine job. But, he'd be the first to agree… he's not _you_. The boy's lost one father already. Don't make it two, so fast."

* * *

"I talk. You listen. When you make mistake, you fix. When you can't fix, you do better next time. That lesson, _you_ taught _me_. How come you knew how to teach that to me, but you didn't learn it yourself? 

"Okay. Now you can talk.

"You can talk.

"Please?"

* * *

"Hey boss. I know you've already been getting an earful from Daddy and the others, so I'm not going to repeat what they said. There's no point. You're not going to move until you're good and ready. Fine. I understand. I think you're being your regular pig-headed self, and maybe that's a good thing, I don't know, but I understand. Just… while you're being your regular pig-headed self… try to remember that if you don't do the PT exercises, you might end up needing that wheelchair permanently, is all. Think about it."

* * *

"Well," the unfamiliar voice said, "I guess I can see where Dick gets his moral compass from." Amy Rohrbach peered through the mesh screening. "I'm a black belt in hapkido, you know," she said conversationally. "It took me over a decade to reach that level. From seeing Dick in action, hearing him talk about how you taught him almost every technique he knows, I can only imagine what sort of training and discipline you underwent. And now, you're just going to lie there and let your mind atrophy with your leg. Brilliant. Let me guess. You were too fast, or you were too slow. You over-reacted or under-reacted. Or to put it bluntly, you screwed up and you think wasting away down here is somehow going to make it all better. Sorry, Batman. _You don't get off that easily!_ You heard me! You've got to be one of the best-trained fighters on the planet. Dick's taught _me_ detective skills he's said he got from you that completely blow me away. And you think refusing to use those abilities is somehow going to grant you some sort of… absolution. Uh-uh! _You don't _get _the luxury of walking away_. Not with the kind of proficiencies you've developed. No way.

* * *

"Hey, Bruce. It's me. I just thought I'd check up on you before I headed out on patrol. I've actually got some good news. You remember, I told you after May resigned as DA, your case ended up on Fran Beaudreau's list. Two days ago, the UN refused to grant permission to Gotham City to try you for… I'm trying to remember the wording, something like 'any alleged offences'. Fran issued a statement today that her office won't be appealing. Bruce… the charges are being dropped! The problem is that you're still stuck here for observation. They're trying to set a date for an involuntary commitment hearing. Bruce, if you don't pass it, they… Babs says they can still keep you here if they think you'll be a 'threat to yourself or others'. Anyway, I thought you should know.

* * *

Batman sat before the screened window for another half hour, until the lights went out in the cell. Bruce never uttered a word. However, the security tapes recorded a day later revealed that after his physical therapist had left, Bruce Wayne had reached for the two canes provided and walked the ten feet from door to opposite wall and back. Repeatedly. Slowly, with great effort, and occasional stumbles, his lips a thin determined line, he grimly set one foot before the other. From the time that his lunch tray was deposited at noon, until the time that his supper came at six, he paused only briefly to consume the contents of the tray at sporadic intervals, and then resumed his pacing. It was also noted that he was wearing the sweater, despite the warm air that seeped in from outside.

* * *

"So, that's it, then?" Barbara asked. "You'll be wearing the Bat-suit most of the time, but still go out as Nightwing every now and again?" 

Dick nodded. "As long as there's a chance Bruce might get out of there soon, my wearing the suit protects both of us. Only your father, and a handful of other people can really tell if it's somebody different under the cowl. If Bruce took the costume back tomorrow, the vast majority would never see a difference." He sighed. "Of course, the Nightwing identity is a whole other story."

Barbara took his arm. "We'll deal with it."

"Are you sure 'we' need to?" Dick asked seriously. "Babs, I went through this once already when Desmond tried to destroy me--and almost succeeded. If they know who I am, anybody close to me isn't--ow!" He looked down in disbelief. Barbara had just rolled her chair over his foot. "What did you do that for?"

Barbara spun the chair around. "Do you love me?" She asked.

"That has nothing to do with--"

"Just answer the question, Dick. Do you love me?"

"Yes!"

"Do you want me in your life?"

"Of course. But have you looked at the risks?"

Barbara's face reddened. "Need I remind you that I am in this chair because, one time I _didn't_ look at the risks? One time, I opened the door without checking the peephole to see who it was. And that time, it had nothing to do with who I was _dating_. It was because my father was the police commissioner, and that maniac had to prove a point! Well, guess what, Dick? I learned from that." She whipped out her escrima and began swinging indiscriminately. A potted geranium fell from the windowsill to the green shag carpeting that had been on the floor since 1976. A stack of blank CD-Roms followed. "I learned to protect myself." One dining room chair fell into a second, which fell into a third, sending all three crashing down as though they were dominos. "I learned to _fight_! Not just with these," Dick had only a split second to block her fighting sticks with his own pair, "but with everything else I had going for me. The _one_ thing I didn't learn was that sometimes it's okay to let my guard down… that maybe I _won't_ get hurt and that once in awhile, I have to risk it. It wasn't until I realized that I was so afraid of losing you that I pushed you away that I tackled that one. But Dick, I looked at the risks, and the odds, and you know something? I _still _think that the second-biggest mistake I ever made was breaking up with you. So don't you _dare_ stand there, and throw it back in my face, and tell me that it's too dangerous to know you! Don't--mmmph!"

Whatever else she had been about to say was lost as Dick pressed his lips firmly to hers. Barbara closed her eyes and wrapped her arms about him, feeling his hands slide over her shoulders. As they parted, Dick mumbled "second-biggest?"

"Opening the door without checking who was there was worse, Hunk-wonder."

"Oh." She was right. "No arguments on that one."

"Signal's lit," Barbara commented.

Dick smiled ruefully. "And they only just replaced it last week. I'd better suit up."

Barbara surveyed the results of her temper tantrum. "And I'd better _clean_ up. Before Daddy gets home."

"Good luck."

"You too." He hesitated.

"Bruce knows you're not taking over," she stated firmly. "You're just saving his spot."

Dick nodded, and headed for the steps to the basement. On the threshold, he raced back, gave Barbara a quick kiss and ran down the stairs where the costume awaited.

_Deep in your silence_

_Please try to hear me_

_I'll keep you near me_

_Till night passes by._

_I will find the answer_

_I'll never desert you_

_I promise you this_

_Till the day that I die…_

_Leslie Bricusse, "Jekyll & Hyde"_


End file.
